


Haste

by LyriumSpecter



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-04-23 00:44:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 72,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14320764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyriumSpecter/pseuds/LyriumSpecter
Summary: The Inquisition stands triumphant. The breach is closed, Corypheus is dead. Thedas, for the moment, is at peace. But not everyone was saved.One casualty will impact the Inquisition in more ways than they'd thought. The Champion of Kirkwall, after all, had left someone behind. He now comes for Skyhold, but in his journey to find answers he may set events into motion that cannot be undone.Magic brought the man into his life, and took him away again. What has magic touched that it has not spoiled?





	1. Alone

The road is quiet as the sun dips low on the horizon. Orange and yellow hues dot through the gnarled trees, painting shadows across the path's worn stones. The mellow sound of a songbird can be heard just off in the distance. It's a crisp early autumn day.

Fenris is only a short walk away, now. No more than an hour before he would return to the small village that sits a day's journey from Tantervale. It has become somewhat of an anchor for him, over these past two weeks. He strides along the path, wearing a thin hooded cloak over his leathers and armor. Silvery-white hair is alight in the evening sun. An imposing greatsword, as always, is strapped to his back.

On a tip from a local farmer, he had tracked down a camp of slavers to the north. The entire task had lasted three days and three nights. He'd spotted a pair of men scouting the area on the second evening. Fenris had exercised restraint, knowing that two slavers with minimal supplies could not be the extent of the troupe. So he had waited… from a comfortable distance… that neither alerted the men to his pretense nor risked him losing their trail. His patience paid off, as the following evening they had led him to their main camp. Six in all, including the two returning. He'd watched their camp, for a time, ensuring his target was genuine. Once he was sure, their only warning was a flash of blue light emerge from the woods in a blur.

The battle was hard-fought, but the surprise had taken them enough off guard. A single archer, of which Fenris was careful to remove first, lest he find an arrow in his flank. No mages, thankfully. Their leader had been a brute of a man, wielding the largest stone maul Fenris had seen in some time.

As the dust settled, only the elf remained with sword in hand and lyrium brands fading in the early morning twilight.

He expected slavers to be more careful, honestly. This particular group was lax, perhaps softened from so long without facing resistance.

He had searched the group leader's satchel, but found nothing of interest. No orders from superiors, no maps to hidden caches. Fine enough, Fenris supposed. Bands of slavers rarely made it so easy as to leave detailed plans behind.

They had no captives, no-one to free, but Fenris did not mind. It was not uncommon for refugees fleeing the aftermath of the war now raging across Thedas to succumb to promises of safety and work in the north. Many who accepted learned such generosity came at the price of deliverance into the hands of the Tevinter slave market.

He had dispatched many such groups in the nearly two years since the events in Kirkwall that had disrupted whatever fragile life as a free man he thought he had built. The same events that led to that war, to fleeing Kirkwall with Hawke and their group, to finding himself walking alone on a road in the middle of the Free Marches. It was not his choice to be alone, although a part of him believed it was inevitable.

To the south of the road sits a small farm with a heard of druffalo, the same that he'd noticed while departing the first day. A wooden fence runs the length alongside the road, small patches of tall grasses growing in sporadic intervals. As he passes, he spots a small written notice nailed to a fencepost and briefly stops. Mouthing the words to himself, he begins to read. It warns of bandits in the area preying on travelers. He need not fear bandits, but it'd still be best to avoid any undue confrontation.

While his reading has improved greatly in the years since Hawke had first offered to teach him, he still finds himself struggling with others' handwriting. Most of his practice had been done using novels, pamphlets, and other printed works. His own handwriting is still atrocious, he knows. Not enough situations provided the needed attempts.

He is nearly to the village. It's visible just over the next hill, the road bending softly toward it. Today has felt the longest of recent memory, and the desire for a night of rest in a real bed is strong.

The sunlight has given way to a cool night sky. Candlelight is the only source of light casting out from the tavern's windows. Fenris swings the heavy oak door open, then closed behind him, and takes note of the few patrons spread at tables throughout the hall. No cues jump out, no eyes watching. Nothing to suggest that someone might be waiting in ambush behind the bar or in a stockroom.

Years on the run had taught him to watch for subtle signs. Signs of a city guard bribed by his master's men to sell out the elf's whereabouts, or an innkeeper threatened to lead him into a trap.

On one occasion, many years before, he had returned to a tavern not unlike this one and briefly locked eyes with a barmaid. The nervous, helpless look in her eyes as she looked away had been all he needed to know. He knew then that his pursuers were nearby, waiting for their moment to strike. He'd slipped out the back window of his room and just narrowly escaped their advance, after a chase winding through back alleys and even a house. He'd come far too close to slaver blades and crossbow bolts that night before finally eluding capture.

Even though Denarius was now three years dead, Fenris can not seem to shake the habit. Nor would he want to, honestly, as caution has always served him well.

He sees a woman standing behind the bar, the tavern's owner, as he approaches and sits. She gives a small nod, which he returns in kind. She is a human woman of no more than forty years, with dark graying hair pulled up into a bun, and hands that hinted at years of hard work. Small bits of her demeanor reminds Fenris of a certain guard captain. As if reading his mind, she turns and assembles a small bowl of stew, a tear of bread, and a tankard of ale from the small hearth in the corner. He places a trio of coins on the bar, which she collects politely before returning her attention elsewhere.

It is the extent of the pleasantries they've settled into since he'd first come to the town and requested a room for the night. So funded with what little coin he had brought from Kirkwall or gained in his time abroad taking small jobs for villagers. He would stay for a few weeks before moving on to another village, and repeat the process again.

He is unsure of his ultimate destination; he only exists… only waits. Finding the occasional group of slavers to decimate is just an added bonus. For the moment, though, this food is reason enough to take a rest.

His mind drifts around the room. The few patrons seem to be simple villagers, alone or in pairs. Most are quietly enjoying their drink, or sharing stories of their day. A duo of dwarven men sit at a corner table, playing a card came. Fenris thinks it might be Diamondback, from the one or two hands he is able to observe. An elven woman is sitting on the opposite side of the room, playing a lute near the fire. She reminds him of quite a bit of Orana.

Everywhere he looks, he seems to compare the lives of these people to those he knew. He's not sure if it is nostalgia, or merely his mind trying to find familiarity.

After eating, Fenris enters the small room off the hall one floor above the tavern. The bed, while nothing extravagant, is a welcome sight. Three nights resting only by the hour with not even a bedroll has taken its toll on his joints. He sighs, dropping his sword into the corner nearby. The large metal blade is never too far out of reach.

A small basin of water and washcloth have been placed on the bedside table. He'd have to remember to give the owner an extra silver before he departs. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he lets his shoulders relax. Dipping the cloth into the basin, he uses it to slowly clear the dried sweat, mud, and bits of slaver blood from his armor, his leathers, and out of his hair.

He's careful around the red scrap of fabric still tied around his bracer's wrist. It has started to fray over time. His fingers absentmindedly play with one of the loose threads.

With hunger satisfied and somewhat cleaner, he sets down his armor next to the table and lays back on the soft feather mattress. Before long, a solemn moment of calm breathing is all he remembers before falling into a quiet sleep.

–––

After the destruction of Kirkwall's chantry and Meredith's death, Hawke's group had departed the city swiftly. They'd rather not have been around when the Seekers of Truth and other Chantry officials arrived. The remaining Templars had yielded in the wake of the Knight-Commander's fall, and what little time they had to spare they used to quickly gather only what they needed.

Hightown had been in chaos as nobles and commoners alike rushed to vacate the upper regions of the city. In the brief stop at his manor, Hawke had told Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana to find shelter elsewhere and keep themselves safe. He and the others would be leaving and he didn't want the three of them in harms way. There was little reason for the Templars to chase down the Champion's servants, right?

Leaving via Isabella's newly-acquired ship, the group sailed east toward Ostwick. The anxiety surrounding them was thick, but slowly waned as they moved further and further from the City of Chains. Each passing day felt a little more real.

As news from Kirkwall arrived in the weeks after, they'd began to go their separate ways. Aveline and Donnic were the first to depart at a small port along the coast, citing a return to their duty to those they'd sworn to protect.

When word came that Templars were searching ships for apostates, Hawke chose to disembark for Isabella's relative safety and freedom to return to her pirating adventures.

A week later, Varric and Merrill had chosen to leave, as well, after they'd learned that order in Kirkwall had cautiously returned. Thanks in no small part to Aveline's assistance, no doubt.

"Just promise you won't go storming into any Templar strongholds. Who knows what might happen without Bianca and I watching your back?"

"Maker-forbid I save any more cities without my favorite dwarven rogue.", Hawke had said. A nervous, muted chuckle followed.

"C'mon, Daisy. We'll try and find a merchants' guild caravan heading west. A few well-placed sovereigns and you'll be back in Kirkwall in no time."

The dwarf had promised to keep the Champion apprised of news through his network of contacts. Merrill had hugged Hawke. His arms enveloped around her small frame, and she seemed to vanish into his embrace. Fenris couldn't help but feel irritated at this contact.

Hawke, in turn, made some jest that they'd all be drawn back to that Maker-damned city, one way or another.

After the pair departed, Hawke had carefully placed his hand over Fenris'. The two stood for a moment, watching their friends move out of sight. Fenris knew how hard it was for Hawke to say goodbye to those he cared about.

He silently reaffirmed to himself to stay by the Champion's side, no matter what. The man had lost far too much already.

–––

Fenris awakens, subtle rays of early morning light streaming through the small tavern room's window. He can almost feel Hawke's hand gingerly touching his. That moment had been nearly a year ago.

Sitting up and wiping the last remnants of slumber from his eyes, he rises and peers from the window. The small village is alive with the day's activity. Farmers are tending stalls of produce; the local blacksmith is pushing a cart of ingots toward his workshop; a young woman in a long summer dress is directing children down the central street.

As he reaches the bottom of the stairs, sword safety strapped to his back, Fenris notices the eyes of the tavern's owner meet him from behind the bar. She waves him over, showing nothing curious in her eyes that would set him to caution. Her demeanor is calm and collected. Still, a spark of adrenaline hits him from habit.

"You there. A letter was delivered for you this morning." She reaches below the counter, presumably fumbling for it. "The lad who brought it said it was important. I assured him I would ensure it's arrival." She speaks with a slight annoyance in her voice before finding her goal.

Letters from Hawke had, for a time, arrived regularly, each delivered by a new, unfamiliar face. Eventually, however, more time started to pass between missives. He understood. He had made no great attempt to stay in one place, had been less than consistent in replying to Hawke's correspondence, and both of them made a habit of losing track of time.

But until now Fenris has not received a letter in nearly three months. He feels his heart jump with anticipation as the woman slides a fine parchment envelope across the bar toward him. Finally.

In his most recent letter, Hawke had mentioned searching for Stroud, the warden they'd met in the Deep Roads all those years before. The same man who'd helped save Carver's life. Hawke had also mentioned corresponding with Varric, who had joined the growing Inquisition. Varric had apparently contacted him in hopes of providing his assistance to the fledgeling organization.

As this new letter slides into view, though, something feels wrong. It looks different. It's adorned with fancy black- and gold-colored embellishments and a wax seal. As he picks it up from the bar, he notices that the seal bears the symbol of a sword through a fiery eye.

Immediately, he's nervous.

He breaks the wax seal and slides the letter from its envelope. The script is not Hawke's. It's far too fine and orderly. Eyes move down to the signature: "Varric," written neatly with a swooping quill stroke underneath. Alright, it's from Varric. He begins to read slowly, taking each word in stride, as if each was a steep step up a high-reaching tower.

"Fenris—"

His own name never seems to look correct in written form.

"This is not easy news to deliver, so I'm going to get right to it. Hawke is gone."

The air escapes from his lungs.

Immediately his palms are hot as his blood rushes. He tries to read onward, but can't seem to focus on the words, his eyes betraying him. He looks up at the woman, who has been watching indiscreetly.

"I… can… you read this to me?" His words are not so much a question as a plea. For a moment her inquisitive expression is all with which she seems to respond. She takes the letter from his outstretched hand, and focuses her eyes on it with a pinch of her eyebrows.

In the decade since his escape from slavery, to being hunted, to years more of upheaval, Fenris is not sure he's ever felt this… terrified. The woman begins reading gruffly. She stops short at the same spot Fenris had. Her voice immediately grows softer, more kind, before continuing.

"Hawke is gone. There was a battle at a fortress in the west of Orlais. The Grey Wardens were performing a blood magic ritual, summoning demons, under the influence of the darkspawn magister we found in the mountains four years ago. I'm not sure how he… it… survived, so don't ask. There was a dragon, and a great rift. We fell through, into the Fade. As in… the same as the legends about Tevinter mages who caused the First Blight."

The woman clears her throat as if trying to do the letter's author more justice.

"I can't really explain it all, but while we were in there we found a demon that threatened everything. The Inquisitor couldn't let it come through. So… Hawke stayed behind, to give us time to escape, and time to close the rift. He's a hero. That much you know. My point is… he's gone. I'm so sorry. Varric"

Fenris only half hears most of the words after "dragon" and "rift". His hands are gripping the edge of the bar so hard that his gauntlets are leaving scrapes in the woodgrain, and his breathing is shallow and forced. The owner sets the letter back on the bar, and says something with a worried look on her face, but he doesn't hear it. He just stares at his gauntleted hands as if they did were foreign to him, belonging to someone else. The world around has faded out into white and gray.

It is then that he feels the hand on his shoulder, before spinning around rapidly, lyrium markings briefly flaring. It's the woman, who has walked around the bar and now stands beside him. He focuses and takes a step backward.

"This Hawke your friend speaks of… that wouldn't perhaps be Kirkwall's Champion?" she says, quietly. The look on Fenris' face all but confirms it, and her eyes briefly fall. "Oh. I see."

Fenris snaps more into reality. He takes a deep, ragged breath, attempting to push away his confusion and anger. He needs to be somewhere else. The letter is still in her other hand, and she lifts it toward him in offering. He takes it back and without another word walks past, returning upstairs.

Closing the door behind him, he can do nothing but lean against it and slide to his heels. He wants to scream. His head falls into his arms. How… how could this be true?

–––

Months on the run had left Hawke and Fenris weary.

They'd tried to be careful not to be recognized, but questions and whispers were inevitable. A tall, muscled Fereldan man traveling with an elven warrior? An elf that was sporting glowing tattoos? Every shop owner and barmaid in the Free Marches raised an eyebrow if the pair happened across their threshold. So they stuck to small villages, never entering larger cities. Less likely for there to be Templars, or Seekers, or the errant group of nobles looking for someone to blame for the rebellion of their local Circle.

They'd had a couple of close calls.

Not far from Ansburg they'd happened upon a group of Templars. The bright light reflecting off of their shields as they marched down the country road gave Hawke immediate pause. Hiding in the nearby brush, they waited until the group moved further along to disappear over the next ridge.

They'd fought Templars before, of course. In Kirkwall, several had gone rogue long before the Knight-Commander had become unstable. Even one templar at full strength could be a formidable foe for a mage. An entire unit would all but ensure Hawke's capture. Fenris knew that if they were discovered and the Templars tried to take Hawke, the elf would do everything in his power to stop them.

What's more, these men and women were not inherently evil. Under different circumstances, some few might've been among those that stood beside Hawke and Knight-Captain Cullen in the Gallows to face Meredith.

No, they wouldn't dare try and fight them. There'd been enough death already. Best to avoid being found or recognized as long as they could.

Eventually, word reached the Free Marches of a new catastrophe in the wake of the war: a great explosion in the south, a tear in the sky, and the death of the Divine. The conversations between locals they were able to overhear were angry and confused. No one could seem to piece together all of the rumors and speculation spreading across the land.

A few weeks later a letter was delivered by one of Varric's runners. From it they gleaned more details: The sudden appearance of red lyrium throughout Ferelden and Orlais; The curious absence of Grey Wardens.

Hawke had been anxious and pale as he read Varric's words.

He felt responsible for so many of these terrible things. After all, it was he and Varric who'd discovered red lyrium during their expedition. It was Anders who sparked the flame that ignited the mages' rebellion and war with the Templars, before the apostate had fled on Hawke's mercy.

The look in Hawke's golden brown eyes as he narrated the letter wrenched at the knot in Fenris' stomach. He could do nothing but be there for him. Be there the same way he had tried to the night Hawke's mother had died.

But Carver… what about Carver? Hawke knew he'd been with a detachment of Wardens in the Free Marches, but he hadn't heard from his brother since before the final events in Kirkwall.

Hawke had decided that night that he was returning to Ferelden. He hoped to find out more of the Wardens' whereabouts, whether Carver was safe, and the extent of the red lyrium. Fenris, knowing the Champion's mind could rarely be wavered, quietly started to prepare for their journey south.

What Hawke said next hit him as hard as a swordsman's pommel.

"You're not coming with me."

Fenris was momentarily without words. "What? You cannot be serious." was all he could weakly reply.

"This is something I have to do myself. I… I want you to stay here."

"No. We agreed, that wherever we go we do so together." Fenris could feel the heat on his skin as he tried to quell his anger. He had meant what he said in the Gallow's courtyard on that final night in Kirkwall.

"Fen…" Hawke paused for a moment. He looked down, as if ashamed of himself. The silence felt like an eternity. "This letter talks about red lyrium. Varric says it's all over the south. Infesting land, farms, shit… even people." He paused again, trying to find the words. "I can't let you get close to that. I won't."

The two had argued for a while longer before Fenris had stormed out. He only made it a short distance outside before stopping. He stood in the moonlight for a time, before sighing heavily and steeling himself. As he cracked the door back open, he could see Hawke sitting on the edge of the bed, reading over the letter again and again. It was then that the elf knew he could not sway the mage's mind. Any attempt to press the issue would only further drive a wedge between them.

After calming down and talking, it was settled. They'd agreed to keep in contact. Varric's people could get a letter to anyone in Thedas, after all.

A night of anxious sleep then left them both tired and quiet the next morning. Before departing, Hawke held his lover in his arms for a long moment, face pressed into the elf's hair. He locked eyes, told him how much Fenris meant to him, and kissed him with a deep and warm embrace. The feel of the Champion's lips on his had, for a moment, stolen away any thought of worry or anger from Fenris' mind. If only that moment could last longer. If only he hadn't chosen to leave…

–––

Fenris sits by the door for what feels like hours. He feels numb. Varric's letter rests on the floor nearby, where he'd dropped it. He's read it and re-read it several times. Doing so answered none of his questions, and just left him more angry.

If Hawke was gone, what was he to do? His life these past ten years had been predicated on Hawke's in some way. He had suspected as much the first night the mage had visited his captured mansion. Something about the way the man had carried himself told Fenris that he was not some idle contractor who would disappear as soon as he'd received payment.

Showing up unannounced was one thing, staying and listening to his problems was another. The man had invited him on adventuring jobs. He seemed genuinely interested in the elf. And the subtle flirting! Had it really been there, or was it imagined?

Looking back, he did not known it, but it was then his life was thoroughly intertwined with that of an exuberant, sarcastic mage.

A mage who cared very deeply for him. Who'd shown him how to live his life as a free man. Who'd shown him what it was to feel love. … A mage who has now apparently died, far away from him.

Fenris lets out a heavy grunt and pulls himself up off the dusty floorboards. This is no time for self pity. He needs to be gone from this place.

A quick glance around the room, ensuring his few belongings are with him. His sword is hefted back into place, and he tucks the letter away safely in his back pouch. The door softly closes behind him.

After returning downstairs he settles any remaining bill with the owner. She does not ask any further questions, nor press the obvious issue. She merely replies with a nod and a warm well wish to him before he walks out the door.

The small town is alive with activity. As he passes, no-one seems to pay him notice. Down the main path and outward to the south. The last few buildings slip by before long.

He's made it some distance from the village before his thoughts turn to the road ahead. He needs answers. If anything, to know why. Why had Hawke not told him the full extent of that with which they were dealing? His last letter had made no mention of fighting, much less a planned battle. This new letter mentioned demons, and mages. He knows that wherever magic is prevalent, things are bound to sour quickly. No manner of evidence had as of yet convinced him otherwise. But he still yearns to understand.

Rifts in the sky. Demons. Magic. It's always magic. Every time he is the slightest bit swayed that magic does not always lead to heartbreak and ruin, some event comes crashing down that awakens him to reality. There *are* good mages, like Hawke. A delicate few who one can trust to put their life on the line and protect others. But there is also no shortage of those who give into the temptation, take advantage of that trust, and use magic to hurt everyone around them.

So he makes his decision. He would seek answers at the source: the Inquisition. Someone could explain how this man was left behind and abandoned. Why he was abandoned. Varric had mentioned someone in charge, hadn't he? How could this person dictate that Hawke be sacrificed so they could be spared? Fenris is boiling with anger now.

If anyone else had been traveling along the road at this precise moment, they might've been inclined to move out of sight as an intimidating elf of no particularly great stature stormed past.

He will find this "Inquisitor", and he will demand answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These first couple chapters are mostly of an exploration of Fenris in the time after Hawke left, with this chapter leading into Fenris' travel to Skyhold in the wake of Here Lies the Abyss and What Pride Had Wrought. My hope is for it to feel somewhat solitary until events including other characters are put in motion.


	2. Southward

It takes the better part of two days before Fenris reaches a town large enough to host regular merchants and caravans. Finding one welcoming of a passenger is difficult. With the volatile state of affairs across Thedas, traveling merchants and guilds are weary of trusting strangers, and as always are particularly distrustful of elves.

Years ago he had travelled from Northern Rivain to Kirkwall, mostly on foot. He would rather not repeat such an effort by walking the entire distance to the Frostbacks.

He does eventually locate a pair of merchants heading in the right direction. He finds they're willing to let him ride along, for the right coin, of course. The driver is a middle-aged human man. With him is a younger elven woman.

"Good day, Serah. I am to understand you are looking for passage. I am Norrin. My apprentice, here, is Mera. We would welcome a skilled sword arm should anything arise, minded it is not instigated yourself." His mild Ferelden accent reminds Fenris of Carver. "For five silver, you can have space in the back of the wagon. Our haul southward is not a full cargo this leg, anyhow."

"That will be fine, thank you." Fenris attempts courteously. He will be a hired guard for this journey, then. Negotiating for aid or goods has never been something he's enjoyed.

"Our destination is Kirkwall. I'd wager from there you should be able to find passage to Jader or a smaller port. Shouldn't arrive any later than three days hence."

Kirkwall. Is this the Maker's sense of humor that others so often call upon? The city _is_, however, the closest port along the coast. So be it.

Norrin moves away to speak to a shop owner nearby, likely concluding business. The apprentice, Mera, is taking stock of supplies and cargo. Every so often, Fenris feels her gaze move to him.

He notices that from the corner of her eye she is observing his markings. In the day's sun, and his current calmed condition, they do not glow, only offering the slightest shimmer along an arm now and then.

He feels uncomfortable. He greatly dislikes drawing attention to himself. Instead he decides that finding a meal and a night's sleep would better serve his time than glowering back at the woman.

–––

They depart the next morning. Fenris rides alongside barrels of fabrics, books, and other goods. The road has its share of bumps and wheel ruts, shaking the wagon suddenly now and then, but it is far better than the alternative.

He spends the majority of his time thinking of Hawke. Of how angry he is that the man had left him behind in the Free Marches and gotten himself killed. Then at how angry he is at himself for allowing Hawke to go. After this, he just feels a deep ache in his heart that he would be so angry at Hawke at all.

As day turns to evening, Norrin asks if he is willing to swap in for Mera in the front so she may rest. He welcomes the distraction, and she thanks him. Having two sets of eyes on the surrounding horizon is a far better watch.

Sitting in the front he can't help but notice a conveniently placed shortsword partially visible at Norrin's left. The man also carries a hunting knife on his belt. Fenris figures that both are readily available should he be so inclined to take advantage of their isolated condition. He takes the man as the type that has dealt with his share of dangers.

Norrin occasionally speaks of their trip, or comments on the countryside, but does not inquire much of his passenger. Fenris is fine with this.

The evening drags.

As dusk nears, they choose to make camp nearby. Finding a spot free of brush, they set up bedrolls and a small campfire. There is no need for tents; the night even out here is likely to be clear and only moderately cold.

In the light of their small fire, the two merchants discuss wares and plans, considering options once they are further along on their journey. Fenris sits quietly on the opposite side of the fire, eating the rations the group had prepared.

The mountains around them are quiet. The moon Satina is visible just over a peak to the west. Far in the distance, he hears a wolf howl.

"Serah, you have the look of a man who has seen much."

It it a second before Fenris realizes that Norrin is addressing him. They'd talked so little since setting out that it catches him off guard.

"The hardships of my life are not something I tend to share with others." He has never liked discussing his past, be it the parts from Kirkwall or Tevinter.

"On the road, traveling between cities, I have met many men and women running from lives they'd wished to forget. Some were fleeing crimes, duties, or debts. But you do not appear to carry such a burden. Riding with you today, you seem to harbor something much more… personal."

Fenris offers an agitated look, trying his best not to angrily retort. He looks down at the ground in front of him, attempting to maintain calm.

"I meant no disrespect." Norrin offers, with a kind upward turn of his lips. "I would not presume to know you, serah, nor your struggles. But if I were to place a wager, it would be that you've lost someone."

Fenris' hands tighten around the small metal bowl he's been holding. He looks back up with this, eyes meeting Norrin's. He feels angry that this man so blindly reads him, so callously fishes for his pain.

Mera is looking to her companion with slight surprise, as if worried that provoking their passenger could elicit unwanted results.

"I do not welcome those who pry into my private life." Fenris' voice is steeled.

"Then I apologize for overstepping my bounds. I did not mean to draw your ire." Norrin takes on a strong pragmatic tone. "Also, it appears that you are glowing." The slight smile grows into a full smirk. "You'll forgive me, but my curiosity had gotten the best of me."

Fenris feels his anger begin to subside. He takes a long breath, and his markings calm. The air around them is quiet, short of the sound of wood crackling in the fire. "If you must know, I have lost someone very close to me. I received word yesterday. I travel now to find answers from those who took him from me."

"Ah. A quest of retribution, then." Norrin pauses for a moment, placing his hands together near his stubbled chin. "I only offer to you this, which you may heed or wholly ignore at your leisure: Acts of revenge are rarely a cure for the ailment of which they're so often prescribed." The man offers a small nod and salutation.

A brief silence. "I… will consider your advice."

Norrin clears his throat and proceeds to lighten the mood by offering stories of their previous journeys. Mera visibly relaxes at this.

Fenris politely listens. He has been a trader in the Free Marches for many years, ever since immigrating from Ferelden after the blight. He had met Mera two years ago, in Wycome's alienage. She'd been selling a small selection of interesting jewelry to the city's patronage. After she'd correctly deduced that another merchant was stealing from Norrin he had made an offer for her to join him. The two appear to maintain an amicable, professional relationship exploring the wares of the Marches, often trading in unique and rare goods.

The conversation, albeit somewhat one-sided, mellows Fenris' attitude. Norrin inquires after his greatsword, and stories of battle and exploration he would be willing to share. Fenris sees now that the man trades as much in tales as trinkets. Varric would welcome long conversations with the man, he thinks.

Fenris offers the story of their adventure at Chateau Haine from several years before, of a great wyvern hunt and unsurprised betrayal. Norrin and Mera look genuinely enthralled with the details. Retelling it for an audience makes Fenris a bit uncomfortable, but in so doing he realizes just how much he values the memory.

As the conversation lulls, Mera looks toward Fenris more boldly, clearly more comfortable in his presence. Her quiet demeanor pulls away enough to expose her curiosity. "Messere, may I ask… if you should not be offended… after your tattoos? Are they magical?"

Fenris broods for a moment, before accepting that her intentions are innocent. "They are magical, but I am no mage. They are made of lyrium."

"Oh…", she says, correcting her slouched posture. "Are they like an enchantment, then?"

"I suppose. They give me several abilities, one of which, with concentration, is that I am able to pass through solid forms."

Her eyes go wide. "Truly? I would not think such a thing possible!"

Norrin is intently watching the exchange now, remaining silent. He is clearly just as curious as his companion.

Fenris takes another breath, and focuses. The tattoos in his hand begin to glow with a cool blue aura, moving upwards along his forearm. The markings throughout his body give off a similar, albeit dampened luminescence, and his hand gains a ghostly translucence. Reaching down, he passes it effortlessly through the small crate on which he's been sitting. Upon pulling it back out, he is holding an apple from therein. He allows his marks to calm and return to normal.

"That is incredible!" Norrin's demeanor is that of an excitable boy.

"Do they hurt? How did you get them?", Mera asks.

Both are questions Fenris has received many times. "They do on occasion; At rest it is more often discomfort than pain. They were given to me against my will, during my time as a slave."

"Oh! I'm… so sorry. Thank you very much for satisfying my curiosity. I shan't press any further."

Fenris nods, now feeling somewhat sheepish over the tawdry display.

Soon thereafter, Mera announces her retirement for the night, makes an additional apology, and heads to bed.

Norrin offers to take the first watch, and inquires no more about the demonstration. He appears to have settled into a respectful coexistence with the elf. Fenris briefly wonders if the man's prodding earlier had been intended to elicit a reaction from the marks, a product of his own curiosity.

Fenris sits, quietly contemplating himself, before retiring as well. He stares up at the night sky for a good while.

He has become more comfortable with his markings and their place in his identity over the past few years. Perhaps he's finally accepted who he is with them. He knows full well that Hawke encouraged as much.

Hawke. His anger and despair briefly resurface. If Hawke showed him so much of who he could be, what does it mean for his future if he's gone?

\---

Three days later, they are descending the slopes of the far side of the Vimmark mountains. The switchbacks are many, but shallow enough to make cart travel bearable. The thick trees are slowly thinning the further down they go, opening to rocky cliffs. The ride has been, after the first evening, largely uneventful.

Just after mid-day, rounding the corner of several large hills, the City of Chains comes into view.

The path curves downward into a valley, leading right to Kirkwall. Steep ravines and bluffs dot the landscape where once were quarries during the long-ago zenith of the city's mining and slave trade. Hightown is spread along the high cliffs overlooking the valley, far above. In the basin at the bottom of those cliffs sits the city walls, cutting a sharp line through the path ahead.

The Northern gates of the city and the surrounding land outside are scarred with damage to the walls, including what appear to be burn marks. The gates themselves are badly damaged, sitting open. A makeshift checkpoint and defensive barricades sit on both sides of the wall. It's clear that a battle took place here, recently.

Norrin notices it has grabbed Fenris' attention.

"Hadn't you heard? Kirkwall was quite nearly invaded some two months back. The Prince of Starkhaven thought it his Maker-ordained mission to restore order after all that fuss with the Circle. Lucky, though, that the city guard were able to hold 'em off long enough for help to arrive."

"I… see," he says.

Fenris does not quite know how to respond. Sebastian had been heartbroken when the Chantry had been destroyed. The Grand Cleric, Chantry sisters and brothers, and everyone else within had been killed. When Hawke unexpectedly allowed the abomination to flee in the aftermath, Sebastian had taken his leave and sworn to return in force. Fenris had not thought it something that would actually come to pass.

"Some folks have been saying it might've been the Inquisition which sent that aid. Course, there's no way they'd ever say so. Politics of it all being what they are."

The Inquisition's reach is far, then. Most of the gossip and stories Fenris had heard of their influence extended no further than Ferelden and Orlais. It does not greatly surprise him that such a powerful organization would have agents within every major city, however.

Once through the gates, they ride the main thoroughfare into the merchants' district of Lowtown. From there the pair plans to offload their cargo and explore the market for new opportunities.

Fenris thanks them for their hospitality. Mera smiles warmly, Norrin shakes his hand, and the two bid him a good journey.

He glances around as he moves away. The market is alive with activity. Two guards stand nearby, surveying for trouble.

Walking through Lowtown feels… very strange. The city seems exactly the same. There are clear effects of damage from more than a year before, but a good effort has been taken to make repairs. Plaster has been replaced. The stalls of vendors are open and busy.

A few people look his way. Most give him no more than a passing glance, and those whose gaze lingers seem to do so more out of curiosity than intent. He does not recognize anyone in particular, but that may be as much due to his lack of social interaction when he'd lived here than from new arrivals.

Just along the path that he'd walked so many times, he can see the Hanged Man. He half expects if he were to walk in that all of Hawke's companions would be there to welcome him for a night of cards and drinking.

He sees the evening unfold in his mind. Varric would be spinning wild tales of Hawke's exploits on a recent job, embellishing all the right details to give the story an attention-grabbing edge. Isabella would be flirting with the barmaids while sneaking one or two extra cards from the cuff of her boot. Aveline might have a polite drink or two before taking her leave early on. Anders would be glowering at his cards, angry at whatever supposed offense he'd been subjected to this week.

Fenris walks past. Those times are gone.

Looking up, he can see the towering keep in Hightown, an imposing stone spire with its mis-mash of architecture. Further along the ridge, a great void remains from his memory of the skyline where the Chantry once stood. He knows that nearby is where 'his' mansion resides. He did not even return to it before they had departed the city. For all he'd know, it could've been completely leveled in the destruction.

Down the winding steps from Lowtown, at the entrance to the Docks, there sits a statue dedicated in honor of the Champion of Kirkwall. Gazing upon it is surreal. It had been commissioned after the Qunari uprising, from which Hawke had received his title. Neither of them had considered it a particularly good likeness. The figure stands in a triumphant pose, a longsword held in his outstretched hand. Fenris cannot recall the last time he'd seen Hawke fight with a sword. He'd always carried a mage's arm, carefully and optimistically passed off as a quarterstaff.

After arriving at the passenger docks, Fenris is able to book passage on a vessel departing soon. It requires a great deal of his remaining coin, but he is satisfied.

Too much is familiar. Too many memories here. This city was Hawke's, and to be here without him feels wrong. He wants nothing more than to once again put this behind him.

That afternoon, as the ship sails through Kirkwall's harbor, it passes near the Gallows. He can see the extent of the damage that had been hidden by darkness the night they'd left. Many of the buildings are scarred and blackened by fire. The entire structure is dark and abandoned, with only a small group of guards standing imposingly at its dock. One outer wall has crumbled, exposing a view down the central mall of the once formidable fortress.

For a brief moment, Fenris believes he might've seen the dark form of Meredith, frozen in red lyrium, kneeled in the center of the square. That thought gives him chills.

\---

Fenris is suddenly reminded how much he dislikes sea travel. The ride is not particularly pitched, but the occasional graceful rocking of the ship sets his stomach on edge. He, of course, has no private quarters, merely being assigned a small space in the hold alongside other elven and human commoners who are making the trip across the Waking Sea. He rest as much as possible, suspecting the journey would only become more taxing as he moves southward. The sea wind is a boon, at least, helping the ship to arrive in Jader the next evening.

Despite its relatively smaller size, Jader makes up for it in refinement and splendor. White plaster buildings with gold and silver ornaments dot the upper areas overlooking the harbor. Walking through the markets, he glimpses shops displaying fine jewelry, delicate fabrics, and precision arms and armor. This is only the markets near the docks, not even those within finer districts. He can see that Orlais is just as apt at displaying and trading wealth as he's been told.

Stopping in a small tavern for a meal, he inquires from the barman for the best route southward.

"Skyhold?", the man replies in a thick Orlesian accent. "Many pass through this town on their way there. If you are looking to join The Inquisition, the best route is the eastern road along the mountains. Skyhold is two days journey from here, but you may wish to wear something a little… warmer." He gestures toward's Fenris' thin cloak and half-bare feet, which while sufficiently suited to the warmer climate of the Free Marches, would be ill equipped for the snowy Frostbacks.

"You said many travelers come through here wishing to join the Inquisition?"

"Yes", the man drawls. "Although I would imagine a great deal of their number may soon be heading home, with news the evil has been banished."

Fenris gives the man a questioning look.

"Had you not heard? Early last week the Inquisition fought that blighted creature in a great battle near Haven. The Inquisitor defeated the horror and closed the Breach. Our skies are once again clear, and that night there were great celebrations across mighty Orlais."

Fenris thanks him for his help and sets out.

\---

He thinks the boots are well fitting, but has never worn a pair long enough to know for certain. Even the harshest winters in the Marches were comparatively mild, and while his feet did then feel a bite of cold, it was always bearable. The old woman whose store he'd bought them from was kind and patient.

He laments the reduced flexibility in his ankles. These will take some practice and patience.

It is dark, now. The city has calmed in the cool night's embrace, and few people walk the quiet streets. He is eager to push on. After a full day confined to a ship, he is hesitant to take to rest without making more headway.

He is walking down a path not far from the city gates when his intuition bares. Someone is watching him. Looking behind, he briefly sees a cloaked figure down the way. He can only get the slightest hint to the shape before they turn and vanish backward into an alleyway. Tall… elven or human.

His first instinct is to rush after them. He pushes it down, preferring to avoid confrontation in a darkened alley, the perfect place for an ambush.

Instead he carefully takes in his surroundings. No others are around. No sounds of footfalls. He cautiously returns to his route.

The path continues, leading upward toward the city walls. He reaches the gates, passing a tired-looking guardswoman.

The lands surrounding Jader, from what he can glean in the moonlight, host wide fields of grapes. They remind Fenris briefly of Tevinter. His master's estate had hosted a particularly large vineyard. The fields eventually yield to a wide forest of oaks and fir trees.

He is a good distance along the path into the forest before the feeling sets in once again. A prickling on the back of his neck. He has but a moment before two figures step out of the trees in front of him.

"Oy, elf. It looks as though you might be in need of help. One can get rightly lost in these woods." The man has a rough Ferelden accent and carries a short sword. His face is hidden behind a simple metal helm.

"I need no assistance. Make your leave." Fenris' voice is strong and definite. His hand is on the hilt of his greatsword. He knows he'll have little time to draw it if they should pounce.

"Perhaps we could offer a trade? For some coin or jewelry we'd be happy to point you in the right direction." The woman to his left has a sardonic tone. She holds a rather imposing pair of daggers. Fenris cannot place her accent.

"Course, if you were unwilling to partake in our helpful offers we would be most offended." The man's face carries a coy smile. Fenris feels the presence of at least one other behind him.

"I will warn you one last time. Leave me be." He feels a strong pulse of adrenaline. His heartbeat is loud in his ears.

The man is now carefully advancing toward Fenris. He thinks he hears the pull of a bowstring behind him, but can't be certain. The woman is moving to flank his right.

Diving forward and left, Fenris dodges the first swing of the man's sword and spins around. As he does, he feels an arrow fly forward and impact his breast plate, just below his left shoulder. It bounces off harmlessly, sending a brief gust of air into Fenris' face. It is indeed an archer that was behind him. He will need to keep the other two between him and the third.

In that moment the man turns and leaps forward with a graceful swing of his sword, catching as the elf moves his gauntleted left arm upward to take the blow. The sword snags in the seam of his armor, parrying the strike. They now stand locked against one another. The man has set his trap and Fenris knows he has only a moment before the woman strikes.

His marks flare as his left arm gains its translucence. The man, clearly not expecting such a change in force, falls forward through Fenris' arm. He is still upright, having caught himself with his forward foot, but it matters little as Fenris reaches upward and slides his ghostly hand through the man's helmet.

There is a ghastly scream as his hand solidifies. Jerking quickly, he drags the man between himself and the incoming dagger strike. It slices effortlessly into the man's back, and he lets out a final wet yelp before going silent.

The woman is horrified at the counter. Another arrow flies near Fenris' head, but he has enough protection from the man's corpse to prevent a direct attack. With one hand drawing his greatsword, Fenris pushes the body forward with the other, phasing enough to release his grasp, as the woman slinks back to avoid it crashing into her.

Fenris dives forward with a thrust. The woman jumps back again, avoiding the sword, but realizes too late that striking her was not his intention. The distraction works, and he quickly dodges right, then left as the archer looses his final arrow. It misses only just, glancing off of the shoulder of Fenris' cloak. The archer has no time to draw another as the large sword impales him through the abdomen.

Spinning around once again, Fenris sees the woman has steadied her stance and is taking in the situation. She looks him keen in the eyes and pulls something from her belt. Throwing it to the ground, it shatters sharply as a cloud of white smoke billows outward. The cloud quickly fills the space between them, enveloping him on three sides. If he were to run, she would most definitely have the advantage. Fenris readies his sword, preparing for a strike. He listens intently for footfalls. The best rogue assassins can strike with barely a sound.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a brief flash of movement. A blur of color as she leaps from cover. He is prepared to dodge.

A strong energy fills the air. In an instant, he feels an explosive force and is briefly blinded, falling backward.

No. This is not good. Is she a tempest? Or perhaps secretly a mage? He braces himself for the coming impact, trying to predict where her blows will fall. His marks are flaring in response.

But nothing happens. All is quiet.

Quickly getting to his feet, he peers through the now-clearing blind. Just in front of him is the woman, lying on the ground. Smoke rises around her. Edges of her leathers and skin are charred near the neck and shoulder, and along one leg. She is not moving.

Lightning?

Fenris whips his head around. He sees no movement along the path, or in the dark forest. He hears nothing except the gentle movement of branches in the breeze and the occasional cricket.

He picks up his greatsword where it had fallen. Scanning the area briefly, he decides it is best to leave without further investigation.

He walks with heightened pace. The scene quickly falls out of view behind him.

He continues looking back regularly for some time afterward. No sign of pursuit. He thinks he would rather not meet whomever had come to his aid on this darkened road.

He flexes his legs as he walks. Fighting in these boots was not as difficult as he'd imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any time I was thinking about Fenris' position in the Free Marches during the events of Inquisition, I couldn't help but assume he'd need to pass through Kirkwall to cross the sea. This presented a nice opportunity to get his feelings of seeing the city without his friends being present (even though Aveline and Merill would most likely still be in the city.)
> 
> This also allowed me to write a small battle scene, something I'm hoping to do more of in future chapters.


	3. Skyhold

The trek into the Frostback Mountains is long. Though it is not yet winter, the constant snowcaps must ensure the peaks are bitterly cold year-round.

Fenris sees regular caravans of goods and patrols of Inquisition solders as he ascends the well-travelled path. Occasional checkpoints ensure that travelers can navigate safely, even in the event of a sudden snowstorm.

This morning, however, the sun shines brightly overhead. The warm sunlight on his face is a nice contrast to the cold wind. His boots serve their purpose well, keeping his feet warm and dry.

It is early afternoon when the fortress comes into view, perched on the top of a stout peak nestled in a large snow-covered basin. All along the base of the peak and up its graceful slope sit smaller structures and camps.

So this is the Inquisition's main force. Fenris takes the view in with awe. The largest force he'd seen in person until today, that of a contingent of Tevinter Imperial soldiers and the private armies of several prominent Magisters leading an attack on Seheron, paled in comparison.

As he walks further along, he sees groups of soldiers sparring. Servants are distributing food and supplies around several recently-built barracks and a large, open-air commissary. People are laughing. The entire area has an air of hopefulness. This army is recovering from the high of a great victory.

Approaching the far end of the thoroughfare, some distance up the peak, there sits a final checkpoint. Beyond it is a tall stone structure connected by a great wide bridge to the main fortress. As Fenris approaches, he sees three Inquisition soldiers standing at the checkpoint. One of them, a tall elven man, steps forward.

"Good day, Serah. How may I welcome you?" His voice is stern, but polite. It is likely they have a very strict protocol for visitors.

Up until this moment Fenris did not consider how he would announce himself. Suddenly, 'I am here to demand answers from your Inquisitor' feels far too direct.

He takes a brief moment of thought while the man stares at him. "I am here to see Varric Tethras.", he replies.

"Master Tethras does not see fans directly, although if you are interested in an autograph or a signed copy of one of his works, you may request them from our quartermaster." He points down the path toward a storehouse.

"I am not here for a book. I…" Fenris feels his frustration rising. "I am a friend." The word is bared through slightly grit teeth, as if he is unsure if the term is appropriate. "My name is Fenris."

"A friend? I see. While I'm sure you have very important business with Master Tethras, he is very busy with his advisor-ship to the Inquisition. I would be happy to put in a request for an appointment at a later date."

The man is testing his patience. He is just about to angrily reply that he does not need a damned appointment when another of the soldiers, a dwarven woman, approaches rapidly.

"Did you say your name was Fenris?" she asks.

"Yes?"

The woman looks to her comrade. He gives a confused look in response. "As in one of the Champion's companions?" The comment is directed both to Fenris and the elven soldier. "Taren have you really never read Tethras' book? The Tale of the Champion?"

Fenris' eyes close and roll back as he very subtly shakes his head. That damned book. It was bad enough that Varric had chosen to put Hawke's adventures into writing. But had he needed to be so specific in his retelling?

Fenris reminds himself to throttle the dwarf for so vulgarly detailling he and Hawke's relationship, and the struggles they'd faced in finding it.

"Oh… Messere Fenris, please. I would be happy to escort you to Skyhold." The woman is smiling now. The elven soldier just shakes his head and waves Fenris forward.

–––

As the two reach the top of the stone approach and cross the bridge into the main keep, Fenris notices the atmosphere here is much more calm than the camps below. The courtyard is large, with a few vendors' stalls offering wares and services. Far on the east side, he sees a stable housing mounts.

In the center of it all is an imposing stone structure with elegant stained-glass windows. The Inquisition's heraldry is on display across the high walls. Many soldiers, scouts, and servants move to and from the keep in an efficient rhythm.

His escort leads him up a set of stone stairs to a tall wooden building on the west side of the courtyard. He correctly infers as they approach that it is a tavern.

"If you would be so kind, Messere, to wait here while I send word to Master Tethras. It should not be long, but I must ensure he is not in council with the Inquisitor's inner circle."

Fenris nods. Varric is apparently far more involved with the Inquisition than his letters to Hawke had implied. The woman strides off toward the large steps of the main hall.

Entering the tavern, he takes in the scene. A well-stocked bar on the far side, with a dwarven bartender preparing drinks. A tall human woman stands near the hearth with a lute, singing a mellow ballad. A few patrons are drinking at tables on the second floor.

Fenris walks up to the bar. The bartender looks him in the eye without a word, waiting on an order.

"Um… Do you by chance have any wine?"

Still without speaking, the dwarf reaches below the counter and pulls up a brown bottle and thick drinking glass. He uncorks the container and pours, the dark crimson contents spilling into the glass. "One silver", he says, sliding the glass over. Fenris hands back the coin and takes his drink.

He finds an unoccupied table in a nearby corner, just behind the hearth, and samples his wine. It is not as dry as the Tevinter vintage he'd grown used to, instead sweet and mellow. The smell and taste trigger a rush of feeling through his sinuses, from his shoulders to his scalp. After such a long journey, he finds solace in it.

The windows cast unfocused shadows over the table, patterns of leaves and branches from the trees outside.

He considers the empty chair across. The nights that Hawke would visit, sharing a bottle of his master's abandoned wine, were some of the best memories Fenris had. He suddenly felt a strong hollowness in his heart once again.

He is recalling one particular evening the two had shared, wherein Hawke had told him stories of his childhood in Ferelden. The thought is interrupted when he notices a figure appear in the tavern's threshold. He looks up, expecting a familiar rogue.

Instead, he sees a tall human man dressed in fine fabrics, adorned with intricate belts and accessories. The man looks around, showcasing his meticulously groomed mustache.

Fenris' blood runs cold as he recognizes the attire and gravitas. He is most definitely Tevinter. A magister or Altus. Likely a mage.

It does not process why he would be here, in the doorway of this tavern.

The man walks toward the bar with all the pompous grace befitting his kind. Upon reaching it, the bartender hands him a drink without being prompted.

"Thank you ever so much, my good man." he says, placing several glittering coins on the bar. "I wouldn't expect that you've seen Bull, by any chance?" To Fenris, his voice is disgustingly melodic.

"I'm not his keeper." The dwarf says with a sarcastic smirk. "But last I saw he was heading out with the Chargers. They're probably sparring in the training yard."

"Ah, as I suspected." he offers as he turns. Walking away from the bar, he approaches a chair near the window and considers it, just down from where Fenris now sits. As the man's gaze drifts over, he locks eyes with the elf.

In that moment Fenris realizes he'd been unsubtly watching this entire performance. His immediate reaction is to look away. A reflex imbued within him from years of servitude to his master and others of like social standing.

He snaps back from it, mentally chastising himself for falling so easily into his conditioning.

The man has clearly noticed him now, and is slowly walking over. Fenris is not sure if he should grab for his sword as he meets his gaze once again. Attacking this man in the middle of the Inquisition's stronghold would most definitely end badly.

"Well, it's not often to see someone sitting alone in the Herald's Rest on such a glorious day." His hand stretches out toward the window, while he takes a long draw of his drink. "I'm not much for the cold here in the South, you see, but today is quite beautiful." A short pause as he looks back at the elf. "I don't think we've been introduced. I am Dorian Pavus, Scion of House Pavus of Qarinus. And you are…"

Fenris feels his markings have begun to glow. As the shadows shift and Dorian gets the first good look at the elf since he'd walked over, realization floods the mage.

"Oh… oh."

\---

Dorian adjusts the cuffs of his fine coat as he enters the grand foyer. The buzz of conversation echoes off the smooth granite walls. Yet another boring party thrown by one of his father's colleagues.

He would much rather be studying in the Circle in Minrathous. Instead, he is here with with father and mother, and two dozen high-ranking members of the Magisterium and their families. It is all so terribly dull.

He takes a small hors d'oeurve from a servant's tray and gazes out a window into the courtyard. The night sky is clear. The last few magisters are arriving, helped down from their great carriages by waiting servants. Each wears the latest fashions sweeping the Tevinter scene, forever trying to outdo their opponents in style as well as politics.

From one of the carriages emerges a man he'd seen on a few occasions. A well respected researcher in the magic arts who had published several controversial theses in the past few years, Magister Danarius. It is not so much the man himself that catches Dorian's eye as the slim figure standing attentively behind him.

A young elven slave with distinctive white hair. He looks to be around Dorian's age, perhaps a bit younger. He's wearing fine tailored clothes that are clearly meant to show off the young man to the other guests, exposing his arms, chest, legs, and thighs to the warm night air. Dorian can just make out a pattern of what look to be intricate tattoos all along the slave's skin, a delicate lacework winding beneath the delicate fabric.

The magister, with his entourage of apprentices and slaves, moves gracefully into the main house and out of view. Dorian suddenly finds that his boredom with the evening's festivities is somewhat quelled.

At dinner, he and his family are seated to the same table as Danarius. The slave is here, too, and Danarius fields curious questions from the other guests.

"My friends, you of course remember the theories I proposed during last season's symposium. After dinner I would be happy to demonstrate the fruits of my research. Until then, however, please hold your questions. I would not dare distract from our host's hospitality." His smile is dryly coy.

Throughout dinner, the slave stands nearby. He is quietly staring at the floor, near motionless unless called with the raise of a glass to fulfill his master's request for wine.

Near the end of the meal, on the raise of Danarius' finger, the young man slips to his side and kneels, his master running fingers gingerly through his delicate white hair.

Dorian is no stranger to those who keep favored slaves in the Imperium. Displaying one so crassly at a party is bold, even for a magister. Danarius doesn't seem to care.

As the meal concludes, the guests are comfortably ushered into the mansion's main hall. The magister now wishes to take the opportunity and show off his work. Directing his slave to stand just behind him, he reveals a granite statue of Archon Hessarian holding his famed Blade of Mercy.

"This, my esteemed colleagues, is the result of tireless magical research into the potential of using lyrium to enhance the body. I have granted this slave a controlled strength, resilience, and ability through the use of carefully crafted lyrium designs."

On his master's command, the slave moves to the statue and hones his tattoos into a cool glow. Dorian watches in wonder as the young man's arm fades into a wraithlike form. He reaches through the bulk of the granite to pull the fine metal sword from its grasp, the crowd audibly gasping.

Danarius moves just behind the young man, a hand falling onto his shoulder. Dorian can see the slave's eyes move downward and his head tilt slightly into his master's touch. "Such wonder would be wasted on a normal soldier. No, he is instead a refined blade that I may wield as an unquestioningly formidable weapon against my… against our… foes."

The magister holds immense pride in his voice as he further explains the fundamentals of the magical theory.

While the other guests pepper Danarius with excited questions and secretly begin their own plans and machinations, Dorian instead spends the remainder of the night thinking about the young man behind those markings.

\---

It was several years later that Dorian heard of the slave's escape during an offensive in Seheron, and Danarius' quest to reclaim his most prized possession at great personal expense.

During his travels with the Inquisitor, Dorian learned he'd later found his way to Kirkwall, and had become a companion of the Champion.

Now, that young man sits in front of him, more than a decade older, looking anxious and agitated.

"I… yes I believe I remember you now." Dorian's voice has suddenly become dry and cracked. For once, the mage is left without words.

"Well, shit."

The two turn in unison toward the tavern door at the dwarf who has just entered. Varric's face is cautiously evaluating the scene.

"Um, Varric. I… I shall be going. I fear I am needed elsewhere. Anywhere else, really." Dorian clears his throat and quickly exits the tavern without looking back.

Varric and Fenris both watch as he leaves. The sound of idle conversation filtering down from the floor above fills the void.

It is Varric who finally breaks the silence, not turning his gaze away from the empty doorway.

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you in person."

Fenris' throat is tired and low when he manages a reply. "So, it really is true, then."

"Yeah. It is." Varric turns and moves toward the elf, taking the chair across. The two sit for another moment before he continues. "Not a day goes by that part of me doesn't regret that I wasn't there with him. That I ran ahead when he chose to stay behind."

"Why?"

"Why did I run ahead?" Varric looks up now, directly into Fenris' eyes.

"Why did he stay behind?"

"Oh. Right. The demon was between us and the rift. Apparently both Hawke and Warden Stroud offered to remain behind and draw it away. The Inquisitor made a choice." Varric's eyes drop to his hands. "I… I didn't realize what had happened until we were all out and he wasn't there. But now I've started to understand that if he hadn't… we'd all probably be dead."

Fenris is quiet. Lost in thought. Varric is trying to form what he wants to say next, in the hopes that it will help soften the blow that the elf is now reliving. His friend interrupts that process.

"So you didn't see him fall?" Fenris' eyes are confused as he looks up and focuses on Varric.

"Well, no. We were running to the rift. The Inquisitor was the last one out, and then it closed."

"So he might still be alive."

"I…" It was a thought Varric had himself entertained on several occasions. "It's been five month. If there was any chance he managed to get away from that thing, somehow, I don't know if he could've survived that place. Not for very long."

"Is there any way to reach him?"

"None that I know. The two rifts at Adamant were both sealed. On our side, they were only a short distance from each other. In there, though, the same two ended up being what felt like miles apart. Even if… let's say you found a rift out in Orlais and managed somehow to get through without dying in the process… there's no guarantee it would lead anywhere near where we were. I don't think it works that way. Nothing about that place made sense."

Fenris is quiet again. So that's it. Hawke was left behind and may or may not have died. "This would be easier if I knew for sure." An angry growl is subtly resurfacing in his voice.

"I know, elf. It's… what has made all of this so damned hard. Every time I wrote a letter it felt like he was gone all over again. Maker, he meant the most to you so I can't imagine what you're feeling." Varric had rarely been so candid when they'd travelled together. "For what little it's probably worth, I'm glad you're here."

The sound of Maryden's lute as she begins another song is all that keeps the awkward moment bearable.

"Why is there a magister here?" Fenris offers, trying to change the subject.

"Oh… don't mind Sparkler. He's harmless. Unless you're Venatori or wearing last year's pattern of brocade. I don't really want to know what all that was about when I walked in, though."

\---

Fenris is shown to a room overlooking the keep's gardens. The fortress is larger that its outer appearance suggests, with winding corridors and hidden alcoves leading to seemingly endless numbers of rooms.

Some small sliver of his mind had hoped that he'd arrive and find Varric and Hawke happily exchanging jabs as they played a game of Wicked Grace. He was foolish to hope that it could've been a mistake… that there was any possibility of error.

For the first time since he'd received the letter two weeks before, he isn't angry. A part of him understands what Hawke had done. It had been exactly the kind of thing for which the man was known. One reason Fenris thinks he'd fallen in love with him in the first place.

He spends the rest of the day in these guest quarters, brooding at the thought of truly having to continue his life without Hawke.

As evening begins to fall, he is quietly considering options while staring out the small window. The thought of a return to the Free Marches is somewhat bitter.

He is startled by the rapping on the door, but composes himself enough to reply, "Enter!"

The door swings open and Varric is there, a reserved look on his face. He sighs heavily without crossing through the door frame.

"I may not have been entirely truthful when I said I did not know of a way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have many times wondered what the first interaction between Dorian and Fenris would be if they'd meet. I never thought it would be outright hostile (at least it wouldn't lead to blows). For this chapter, I wanted to add hints and backstory in which Dorian realizes he's "met" Fenris before, which gives a little bit to work with other than "rawr magister bad."


	4. Hope

It is late in the evening when Varric surprises Fenris at his guest room door.

"What are you saying, Varric?"

"I know someone who might be able to help. Well, a few people. Assuming of course they're willing to help. Hopefully I have enough favors built up to get us started."

"It must be quite the favor if you hadn't said something earlier." Fenris retorts.

"It is. Trust me, it is. What we're talking about doing… it would go against everything the Inquisitor stands for. Which… is why I've neglected to tell her until I know for certain if it could work. I've already made some initial inquiries. I didn't want to get your hopes up, but I figured you might want to be there when I talk to him. Because he will most likely think it's a terrible plan. But… you tend to be a bit more… persuasive."

Him? "Varric, whom are we talking about?"

"You've… already met."

–––

Dorian sits in a comfortable armchair within the Inquisition's library, a glass of brandy resting nearby. The other scholars and mages have since retired for the evening, leaving the room to himself. His eyes drift from the tome he's been reading to the window, interesting patterns of frost catching his fancy. He hears the door open behind him, and his eyes refocus in time to see the figure standing behind him reflected in the darkened glass.

"Oh, Varric!" he says, spinning around. "I didn't realize I had guests. I…" his words stumble as he sees that standing beside Varric is the elf from earlier. "I… take it this is not a social visit?"

"No, Sparkler. I was hoping you might be able to help. I want to introduce you… formally… to my friend. This is Fenris."

They both hesitate. Dorian chooses to give a grand bow in lieu of a handshake. Fenris returns the briefest of nods.

"A pleasure. Any friend of Varric's is welcome. I've heard some rather interesting tales of his… and I suppose your… adventures. How may I be of service?" Dorian shakes off his nervousness and returns to his refined nature.

"We were hoping you'd be able to answer some questions about, well, how do I explain it…"

"I wish to find Hawke." Fenris' tone is direct, the frustration with Varric's minced words evident. "If there is any way to reach him, to know whether he survived, I would pursue it."

"Yes, well, that." Varric now realizes how idiotic it must sound this long after the fact. "Assuming he was still alive, of course. We realize how long it's been."

"Oh… I see." Dorian heaves a heavy breath and looks into the space between the other men. His eyes reflect the analytical mind that is quickly considering the possibilities. "I am by no means an expert on the magical constructs of the rifts and the Fade. If you did find a rift nearby, I'm not sure it would lead where you wanted."

"Trust me, Sparkler. If Chuckles were around, I wouldn't be bothering you with this. But with him missing you're our resident expert on all things weird and Fade-y."

Dorian seems hurt at the insinuation that Varric would take magical matters to Solas before him. "You wound my pride, Varric. I assure you, if anyone in Skyhold could help with this problem, it is me. It's just a matter of power, and finesse. But you do realize what you're proposing? Not to mention we're not even sure how the Inquisitor was able to pull us through the first time. Speaking of which… have you mentioned this to her?"

"Not yet. I didn't want to bother her Inquisitorialness with this until we had a solid theory."

"More like you didn't want her immediately shutting you down for fear of pulling an even more unspeakable horror through?"

"Well, yes. That, too. Which is why we came to you. And we do realize what this might mean and the danger that could be involved. If it's not possible, or it's too risky, we can accept that. But, if there's any chance…"

"Of course. Let me take a moment…" Dorian paces around his small alcove. "So far, I haven't studied any cases of a force on this side able to open a rift without immense amounts of magical energy. For something to pass through, it's easier if the opening is already there. Like a crack in the stone that you can grab hold of and widen. Areas where the Veil is weakest do tend to be where rifts form most readily. But with the Breach now closed, the number of new rifts popping up on their own has unfortunately fallen to naught…"

Fenris is beginning to tire of the mage's rambling. He slumps into a nearby chair, wondering to himself whether such an idea would be hopeless. What if they were successful? The weight of the situation presses on him. What if they accidentally unleashed something horrible… like the demon that Varric had described. It would be a hefty price to pay just to find out Hawke had truly died.

"…and there's still the matter of time. It's been five months, after all. Even if Hawke were still alive, he could've moved who knows how far within the Fade."

The smallest of smiles curls at the edge of Varric’s lips. "About that. Well… I am scared to even mention it, Sparkler, because I know how dangerous this shit is, but what about what happened in Redcliffe. Could that help us at all?"

"What? Oh, sweet Andraste. That is a terrible idea. That magic was unstable even then."

"But could it work? I'm just saying, it would solve a lot of the problems you were talking about."

Fenris looks up now. "Of what do you speak?"

"It's not a matter of _if_ it could work, Varric. It's a matter of how badly it could mess things up should it _actually_ work. Also I'm fairly certain it was only possible then because of the effects of the Breach, and I don't know if you've looked out a window recently, but that little problem has been fixed."

"I know, I know. But you aren't exactly giving me a 'no', here."

Fenris' comment appears to have fallen on deaf ears. The other two seem to have forgotten he's even there. "Varric!" In his tired state he has little patience.

Dorian and Varric spin around, suddenly realizing they've been ignoring him.

"Right. I'm sorry, Fenris. I… there was some magic used in Redcliffe, by a… magister.” Varric clears his throat awkwardly. “It somehow sent the Inquisitor and Dorian a year into the future. I was wondering if we could do something similar to find Hawke."

"Here we go." Dorian is clearly regretting the conversation having travelled down this path. "Don't worry, Dorian, nothing bad _ever_ happened to anyone abusing dangerous magic."

Varric ignores the man's exuberant monologuing. "It's how we knew about the plot against the Empress, and about the demon army being gathered by the Wardens."

"It's also incredibly unstable and could've just as easily backfired and destroyed most of that castle in the process. Not that it wouldn't have been an improvement. Did you see how many bear-skin carpets they had?"

"But it didn't, right? You figured it out and used it to bring you and our dear Inquisitor back." Varric has adopted the pragmatic tone that he so often uses to disarm situations. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Sparkler, but haven't you been using little bits of that magic in battle?"

"What I've been developing is related, yes, but is not the same thing. I've been investigating similar fundamental equations that can be used to speed up and slow down those around us. It's a more refined version of the effect we saw from the rifts in Redcliffe."

"See? That's progress. Like you said… if anyone could figure these things out, and how to use them without blowing us up, you're the one."

"Fenhedis." Fenris is rubbing the bridge of his nose now. "Let me get this right. A _magister_ used magic to send you into the future, you used it again to return, and now you've been studying it? …and they ask why I distrust mages."

"Well, to be exact, Alexius didn’t plan to send us into the future. That part was accidental. You see, we had interrupted his…"

"I don't care." Fenris interjects. "Can it help find Hawke or not?" He debates washing his hands of the entire ordeal. Deferring to mages with such matters has rarely ended well. For this, however, he is willing to briefly entertain the idea.

Dorian sighs. "Possibly. Under very controlled conditions, it could in theory be used to send someone backward in time. The best option would be to send someone back to the point of the battle at Adamant, where you could slip through the same rift we fell into. Then it's easy. From there, you have untold ways in which you could inadvertently change the course of events and erase everything the Inquisition has accomplished since. _This_ is why such magic is so dangerous."

"Which magic is so dangerous?"

The threesome turns, realizing someone now stands in the doorway of the library. It's an elven woman, wearing rich blue finery. Across her face are vallaslin. A pattern of Mythal, if Fenris remembers correctly.

"Inquisitor. We… were just talking about you." Dorian manages.

"Only good things, I'm sure." Her eyebrow raises questioningly. Eyes falling to Fenris, she suddenly looks at him with recognition. "Ah, Leliana mentioned you had arrived. I hope Skyhold has been welcoming after a long journey."

Fenris is unsure of how to respond. Days ago, he would've eagerly accepted an opportunity to air his grievances to this woman. Now that she stands in front of him, he hesitates. "Thank you. I… you appear to have amassed a great deal of power here."

"Yes, it takes some getting used to. Yesterday I'm told I wore last year's gloves and nearly started a war between rival houses in Lydes. Now tell me… what the three of you plotting?"

"Er…", Varric tries as the men exchange a look.

\---

"Absolutely not. Are you all out of your minds?"

The Inquisitor's mood has not improved since entering the library. She is fairly certain her headache is in fact getting worse.

"Do you have any idea what you're proposing? Time magic is not something we can go to whenever something bad happens. If we used it to bring someone back, how long until we use it to change the outcome of a battle, or stop an invasion? Dirthara-ma! What would prevent us from changing Andraste's fate?"

"We aren't talking about rewriting history." Varric is waving his arms in a solid gesture of 'no'. "None of us know if Hawke is alive or dead. We're just talking about using it to get to a place and time where we know for certain he'll be."

Dorian is staring out the window into the darkened courtyard. "_You_ are talking about it. I told you I thought this plan was a terrible idea."

"You're not helping, Sparkler. I only want to make it clear that what I'm proposing is just an in-and-out operation. Jump into the rift at the right time, lay low for a bit, then when the time is right we grab Hawke, find some way to distract the demon the size of a house, and get out."

"Except you're ignoring the little bit about who was _with_ Hawke and the Inquisitor. There were six of us in there counting you, the Seeker, and myself. Hawke was beside us until the very end. How would you propose you 'grab him' without anyone of us seeing… well… you?"

"I've been thinking about that. Right at the end, Hawke ran off from the group, right? And the rest of us hauled ass to get out. Once he ran off to face that… thing… he was alone."

Fenris feels a sharp ache in his heart at those words.

Dorian turns. "Yes, about that. There's still the matter of the Nightmare. It was able to sense us even before we faced it."

"Only after the Inquisitor had used the mark to restore some of her memories. If we are far enough out of range, we might be able to avoid it detecting us."

“That’s a lot of ‘ifs’, Varric.”

“Yes, but I think it’s worth the risk.”

Fenris is honestly impressed with Varric's plan. He's not sure if it's because he's so tired, or because the dwarf is actually making sense.

"I… Varric. Tell me. When you came in here tonight, how much of this did you already have figured out?" Dorian's eyes have narrowed.

"Heh. Well, That's a funny story."

"I'm sure I would split my sides." Dorian's dryness is practically chafing.

"So… what do you think, Inquisitor?"

Lavellan has grown quiet since her initial outburst. She now sits in the armchair, eyes closed, gently rubbing her temples. "I can't believe I'm entertaining this idea." Her eyes open, and she sits forward. "Wait… yes I can. It's the same kind of foolish logic that led the Wardens into a deal with Erimond in the first place. When a situation seems impossible, suddenly finding a solution that offers to fix all of your problems is likely you just being blinded by optimism and hope."

"I don't think we're being overly optimistic. We've considered most of the horrifying ways this could go wrong. We just have to…"

"No, Varric. It is out of the question. Actions have consequences. I will not be responsible for whatever unexpected circumstances this plan could invoke. It's too dangerous."

Until this moment, Fenris was content letting the three exchange opinions on their own. Now, however, he feels his anger rapidly resurface. "You will not be responsible? Tell as much to Hawke. It certainly seems you were comfortable enough choosing to leave him behind."

"The choice I made was not an easy one."

"Wasn't it? It was, after all, Hawke who awoke that darkspawn menace. I know very well how guilty he felt. You said yourself that actions have consequences. Did that not make the choice easier for you, so convenient that Hawke could atone for his mistakes?"

The Inquisitor is visibly trying to remain calm, now. Her voice is low and flat. "Hawke's choice was his own. He made the offer to remain behind, as did Warden Stroud. It was a difficult decision, one of many decisions I am forced to make every day. I do not regret my choice and I do not answer to you."

"Vishante kaffas. I've known mages like you. Unwilling to be held accountable for their actions. Eager to push others onto the line without thought of blame." Fenris is suddenly recalling the all-too-familiar arguments he'd had with Anders and stubborn excuses that constantly clouded Merril's judgement. "It always ends the same, with innocent people being hurt."

"I warn you to consider your words a bit more carefully when speaking here, ma falon."

"There is no need. I can see now that you can do nothing for me, here. I am done with all of this." Fenris pushes his way toward the door, turning the corner to head up into the guest wing.

The Inquisitor grips her hands tight and storms toward the door. "Ooourgh! If I was looking to be lectured and demoralized, I would've insulted Vivienne."

She heads down the stairs in the opposite direction. A moment later, a loud sound is heard as one of the heavy wooden doors in the main hall slams shut behind her.

Varric turns toward Dorian, whose mouth is agape. "Well… I think that went well."

\---

Fenris returned to his room, but felt it too confining. He now finds himself walking along the ramparts. The occasional posted Inquisition soldier meets his eyes as he walks, but offers no questions. It is likely the patrols were briefed on his arrival.

He would choose to leave immediately, if it weren't now the middle of the night with limited visibility through the mountains. Departing just before first light would be easiest. He still does not know where he will go.

This had been a fool's errand. What could he have possibly accomplished here? Attack the Inquisitor in his anger and heartache? When Varric had offered a thread of hope, it had clouded his judgement even further. He let his emotions get the better of him, led along a path that was fruitless.

Deep down he knew she was a respectable leader. Such leaders must sometimes choose to leave agents behind. She'd only just met Hawke. He considers all of the others she must have been forced to watch die because of her actions. Just as Hawke had in Kirkwall. He somewhat understands how inconsequential one man must have seemed compared to all of Thedas. One out of an untold number lost to save the world.

But he had been so much more to Fenris. He'd given the elf hope of a life. That he could be his own man, truly free of the shackles that once bound him. When Hawke had returned his affection, even after three years of patiently waiting, it had proven to Fenris just how much the man had meant to him.

The forests along the basin are dark. Both moons shine through clouds overhead, casting eerie shadows over the white snowbanks below.

\---

"Copper for your thoughts?"

"Hmm?" Fenris looks up from the book sitting in his lap.

Hawke's golden-brown eyes are warm and inviting. "You've been reading the same page for awhile. I know you're reading faster than that, now, so I thought you might have something on your mind."

"Oh. I suppose my mind was drifting. I am sorry."

"No need to be sorry. Any time I get to spend with you is welcome."

The two are sitting on the floor of Hawke's library, backs propped against the side of a large armchair. The last embers of a fire crackle in the fireplace.

"I was recalling yesterday's bounty." Fenris offers, answering the Champion's initial question.

"Maker, If I ever see another giant spider, it will be too soon. Why do they even exist? How can they possibly survive with bodies that big?" Hawke is gesturing emphatically into the air.

"It is a mystery for the age."

"Merrill told me that only the females get that big. The males are far smaller. Which, as I pointed out to her, only raises bigger questions. She didn't get my meaning."

"That does not surprise me." Fenris leans to his left, shifting his weight into Hawke.

"Don't get too comfortable. I have it on good authority that Aveline has a new job for us tomorrow. This one involves a possible sighting of shades at a warehouse near the Docks."

"Wonderful." Fenris growls with little care. It feels as though he might drift off to sleep here.

"I told her 'no more killing demons unless we're rewarded in spirits.'" Hawke can barely contain his own grin.

Fenris smiles at this. The Champion's humor may be utterly predictable, but he would never wish it to change."

Hawke notices his love's eyelids drifting. "Now, if you would rather we postpone the reading lesson, I could think of a few other things we could do." Hawke's grin has become a coy smile, now.

\---

A warm comfort runs through Fenris while he stands in the cold night air. It has been some time since he's recalled that evening. It was one of many spent alone with Hawke once they'd resumed their relationship.

His thoughts snap back to him when he hears someone quietly approach.

"I hope I'm not intruding." Lavellan is there, wearing a warm-looking green cloak around her shoulders.

"Not at all."

She moves to stand beside him, peering out into the far-off trees.

"It really is beautiful up here. I'd never been around snow much before all of this. My clan tended to stay in warmer regions of the Free Marches."

Fenris looks up to her, now.

"Did Varric not tell you? My clan lives near Wycome. I was only sent to the conclave to spy on the proceedings." She offers the weakest of smiles. "I nearly lost all of them recently, because of some nobles in the city."

Fenris is quietly listening, not sure of her direction.

"There were rumors some were secretly helping the Venatori. My clan requested aid. I was forced to decide whether to send in our agents and act or to try and find more evidence. I chose to act. As it turns out, the nobles were poisoning wells with red lyrium. They were trying to wipe out both the elves in the alienage and my clan."

"But they still live?"

"Yes. We stopped the Venatori and my clan helped the merchants take control of the city. Things are on the mend, now, I'm told."

"How fortunate for you." Fenris looks out into the abyss once again.

"I suppose my point is… we make decisions every day that affect the lives of thousands of people. Sometimes we get it right, and other times we don't. In the worst cases we lose people. The best I can do is accept when I've made a mistake and try to move forward."

Fenris runs his hand through the light layer of snow that's collected on top of the stone wall. "…and Hawke was one of those lost."

"Yes. But after giving what you said some thought, I realized. Even when we lose people, we try our best to recover something, whether that be a body to burn or belongings to return to loved ones. Hawke is no different. He deserves more than to just be written-off as another casualty. That's why tomorrow I will bring together our best agents and see if this plan of Varric's has any merit. At the very least, I hope that you could be granted some peace."

"Truly?"

"Yes. But if my people decide that it's too dangerous, you have to be willing to accept it. This is not the kind of mission that you could undertake alone."

"I… of course."

"Well. Now that I've said my piece, I believe I will finally retire. Our ambassador will be ever so agitated if I'm not awake and ready for our briefing in the morning. Good night, Fenris."

"Good night, Inquisitor. …and… thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenris, Varric, and Lavellan must all carry a lot of guilt. Fenris for letting Hawke go alone; Varric for getting him into all of this to begin with; Lavellan for losing people. Maybe for once they can recover someone who's been lost. I also like playing off the idea that Varric somehow (consciously or otherwise) instigates many of the events that have affected Hawke and the Inquisitor.


	5. Orders

At the head of Skyhold's main hall sits a throne. Fenris pauses momentarily to look upon it. It is built from a fine dark wood, with red velvet upholstery, and the Inquisition's symbol embroidered with gold and black thread. For such a small piece of furniture it carries an imposing air. He is unsure of what crimes the Inquisitor has been tasked to judge, but seeing it evokes a strong feeling of melancholy.

"Kinda weird, isn't it?" Varric is there, just behind him. The dwarf seems interested in Fenris' curiosity. "When we first got here and were cleaning up, Ruffles said that any force influencing change needs a seat of authority. I didn't realize she meant it literally. It reminds me too much of the Viscount's Keep back home."

"I suppose." Fenris considers mentioning his brief detour through the city. He instead decides to shakes off the thought.

"Well, shall we? The equally-ominous war room is this way."

The pair walk down a long hallway off the main hall, coming to a large set of wooden doors. One is open, and they are welcomed in by a woman wearing fine golden silks."

"Good morning, Varric. You are right on time. We are just about to start. And you must be Serah Fenris. It is a great pleasure to meet you." She smiles and bows politely.

"Fenris, this is Lady Josephine Montilyet." Varric offers. "She is the Inquisition's ambassador. She's single-handedly responsible for making sure the nobles of Thedas don't show up and start bashing in our gates."

"I am not sure I would put it so… brutishly… but I assure you I am only one part of our Inquisitor's advisory."

"It is nice to meet you." Fenris offers.

The three walk in, and Fenris surveys the many faces present. The Inquisitor is here, standing behind the large wooden table that dominates the center of the room. She appears calm and collected. Beside her are several others, talking with one another quietly. Fenris scans the room, taking in some of the many faces assembled. Is this the Inquisition's inner circle?

He immediately recognizes Cullen, standing near the Inquisitor. Varric had said he'd joined the Inquisition as the commander of its army. Cullen acknowledges Fenris with a solemn nod.

To the Inquisitor's left stand three other women. The first has long mailed robes, with threads of red hair tucked neatly in her cowl. She is conversing with another, a statuesque warrior with cropped black hair. The third, a tall woman in a long fine dress and horned helm, is listening along.

The mage, Dorian, is here as well, standing beside a window. Fenris is momentarily stunned, as speaking to him is a hulking Qunari. To see both so casually talking is… odd to say the least, given the extreme animosity between their two peoples.

"Good morning to you both." the Inquisitor welcomes. "Shall we get started?"

Varric has moved toward the war table with the ambassador. Fenris follows and stands nearby, still unsure of the council that now stands before them.

The Inquisitor begins by introducing those remaining to Fenris. Cullen; The Spymaster, Leliana; Madame de Fer, another magical advisor; The Qunari, Iron Bull; The Seeker, Cassandra.

"Don't forget we are supposed to call her 'Most Holy' soon.", Varric interrupts. Smiles now, as Cassandra shoots the dwarf a look that could flay a dragon.

"Thank you all for attending. As most of you have likely heard, yesterday Varric brought to my attention a plan of action. If successful, it would allow us to rescue Garrett Hawke."

The room is silent now.

"While I was dismissive at first, arguments made have since swayed my mind. I am willing to give this plan the breadth of our consideration and evaluate whether it would not only be possible, but also the true level of risk involved. With that, I will defer to Varric and Dorian to explain further."

All eyes turn to the dwarf, who breathes heavily once before clearing his throat. "Well… where do I start?"

* * *

The plan is presented. Varric details his ideas, with occasional input from Dorian. As the conversations shifts to time magic, people start interjecting.

"Dorian, I thought you said the only reason the time amulet worked in the first place was due to the Breach." Cullen speaks with a calm, quiet tone.

Dorian walks up to the table, now. "Yes, I did say that. I do think that the experiments Alexius was performing were significantly helped by the presence of the Breach. However, the underlying theories were the same we'd studied for years in Minrathous. Up until then, we had no solid foundation for it to actually work. But when Alexius managed to succeed, it opened several paths to investigating it further."

"Darling, as dangerous as this plan sounds, let us consider for a moment the Breach." Madame de Fer, now, steps up to debate. "The immense amounts of magical energy that were unleashed are not easily duplicated, nor controlled. It required a legion of rebel mages to even begin to counteract the effects, and the power of an ancient elven artifact to fully seal it. An artifact that, sadly, we do not even have to study thanks to the disappearance of our resident apostate. You cannot naively substitute another type of power and hope to achieve the same effects."

"Oh, Vivienne, I _have_ given this some thought, and have some experience with this type of magic, you'll recall."

"Experience and understanding are two very different things, my dear."

Dorian appears to ignore her attempts to rile him.

"Inquisitor, do you remember the curious elven artifacts you've discovered and activated in the multitude of elven ruins we've explored? Solas once told us they were designed to strengthen the Veil in areas that have seen it weakened."

"Yes? We brought one to Skyhold for study."

"Precisely. I believe one of these devices could be modified to act in reverse. In essence, it could be used to repel the Veil, weakening it enough where your mark could be used to open a rift anywhere we choose."

"You suggest we open a new rift?" Cassandra asks. "But I thought only a tear as large as the Breach could provide enough energy to power the amulet."

"Well… that's where it gets interesting. The rifts, the Breach… they are all just holes in the Veil, allowing raw magical energy and the occasional spirit to slip through. If the Inquisitor could open a rift, we could then use the amulet on the other side. We'd have plenty of ambient energy at our disposal to power the spell."

"Wait. You suggest entering a rift _again_ and using power within the Fade?" Cassandra seems extremely concerned. "Isn't that exactly what Corypheus was trying to do?"

"That is perhaps a very crude comparison. We would not be looking to tear open the Veil and allow demons to stream through to this side. We would merely be reopening a rift like the many we've closed to allow us access. If we use the amulet from within the Fade, I believe it would allow us to slip backwards in time far enough to locate the Champion at the right moment. It also avoids the little annoyance of the battle at Adament that would be occurring on this side."

Leliana speaks up, now. "The current state of Adament Fortress would be welcoming to such a plan. The keep suffered massive damage during the battle, and only a small contingent of Inquisition soldiers now guard it."

"We would need to make an offical request to the court of Empress Celene before attempting any such experiments in the Western Approach." Ambassador Montilyet continues.

The others begin talking to each other in pairs about the various logistics that would be required for such action.

"What about the demon?" Fenris inquires. The room begins to quiet once again. A moment later he continues. "Varric told of a massive demon within the Fade."

"Yes, the Nightmare." The Inquisitor looks unnerved just speaking of it. "I don't think we could kill it. If we have any hope of rescuing Hawke, it would need to be distracted or disabled. The first time we were there, we were out of our element; We did not know what to expect. This time, we would at least know what is coming and plan accordingly."

"If all we need is a distraction to grab Hawke and get away, I think I can help." Varric has a grin, now. "I was talking with Buttercup just this morning about something that might work."

"Inquisitor — you truly wish to consider this?" Cassandra asks.

"Now that Corypheus has been defeated, I believe it is our duty to ensure that the damage we caused be rectified as best we can. This plan, in particular, is a special case. It gives us the opportunity to rescue one of our agents. Someone important to many of us. I… believe it is worth the risk."

Cullen steels his demeanor. "Then we will get started."

* * *

Fenris is standing on the battlements, looking out onto the vast courtyard below.

The rest of the meeting had gone well. Some of the group had protested, but most fears were eventually quelled. It was decided that the rescue, if planned properly, should have little impact on events. They'd discussed further questions, possibilities, and how to proceed. The Ambassador would be sending word to Orlais. Cullen, Dorian, and Varric would plan for the journey westward. All signs pointed to this actually happening.

Now, there is nothing for Fenris to do but wait. It is irritating.

Down in the courtyard, he sees the Qunari from earlier. He appears to be sparring with a human soldier. The Seeker is reading on a stool nearby.

The Qunari looks up, now, meeting his one eye to Fenris. He raises his arm and gestures for him to come down.

He meets the pair near the foot of the stairs. They stand beside a tree as he approaches. It is the Qunari who first speaks.

"So… you're the elf who's been kicking the shit out of slavers in the North."

"I… suppose?"

"Hah! You've got no idea how many Ben-Hassrath reports were passed along about you." He extends his arm, and Fenris shakes his hand. His grip is strong, his hand easily enveloping the elf's. "The Iron Bull. This is my lieutenant, Krem. Our band of mercenaries have been serving with the Inquisition since all this shit started."

Krem also greets him with a handshake. "The boss figured you could use someone to hit."

"I would welcome the distraction. Waiting on others' to act has never suited me well."

"Right? All that talk about magical Fade crap." Bull grabs a large wooden sparring pole from nearby and tosses it lightly to Fenris. "Sooner or later I can't listen to it anymore." He grabs another for himself and takes a stance.

Fenris takes position as well. A deep breath and his shoulders relax. The two move forward in unison and begin to trade blows.

Their staves deflect off one another several times as they parry each others' strikes. As Fenris pushes right, using his opponent's potential blind spot to his advantage, Bull predicts his move and deflects the incoming blow with his left bracer.

Fenris feels his adrenaline rush. Another step to the right, followed by a quick upward swing, and hits hits the Qunari across his chest. A slight "Augh." is all that is heard as Bull ducks to his side and delivers a hard swipe to Fenris' left flank. The sting is sharp as the staff impacts directly above his hips.

After several dozen exchanged attacks, the two begin breathing heavily. Fenris moves to the left to attempt a strike on the Qunari's thigh, but Bull quickly jumps and swings his staff under the elf's right leg as he pivots.

A quick turn and he is able to upend Fenris, sending him falling onto his side. As he hits the ground, Fenris shifts his weight and rolls enough to regain footing, quickly jumping back to his feet. The side of his face is covered with a dusting of soil where he grazed the ground. He spits out a clod of dirt and refocuses. He is, for once, grinnning.

Bull waits for the next attack. Within a breath, Fenris considers and is moving. He ducks forward and right. Bull pushes off with his left leg to counter him again, but assumes incorrectly that the elf will try and strike. Instead, Fenris focuses his markings.

Just as Bull pushes off the ground to dodge, Fenris releases a forceful burst from the marks that offsets Bull's balance as his feet return to the ground. It is enough to push the Qunari back slightly, adjusting his momentum and allowing Fenris to pivot and slam his shoulder into the man's abdomen, sending him toppling to the ground.

The Qunari crashes to the ground with a loud thud, causing Cassandra to look up from her book.

"Hahahaha. Ahhhhh. That was a good one." Bull is coughing while he laughs. Fenris walks over and extends his arm to help the man up. "I knew those marks were powerful, but I didn't know you could do that push thing."

"It comes in handy if an opponent is not so easily moved." Fenris pauses to wipe the dirt that has fallen into his eye.

"I will have to remember that. Krem is about the only person here who has been able to knock me down prone in a fight. And he had a maul to help. Now, how about we grab a drink?"

* * *

"So, tell me. What made you think it was a good idea to trek all the way up here and confront the Inquisitor?"

The three are seated at a table in the tavern, drinks comfortably in hand.

"That is what you planned to do, isn't it? Show up, find her, then maybe get really angry for a bit." Bull makes a gesture with his hands of grasping someone's neck.

Fenris looks at the Qunari and considers for a moment before answering. "Yes. I was angry, and it seemed like a fine course of action at the time."

"I can't really blame you. If I had been in your place, I probably would've done the same thing. Good thing Varric was around, though. Not that I wouldn't have liked to see you try and take her on. But don't let the woodland frilly look fool you. She's taken on some of the nastiest shit I've ever seen."

Fenris takes a drink from his tankard. The ale tastes much better than what he'd grown used to in Kirkwall. "Hearing that is reassuring. It is not often I have seen a leader as capable as she seems to be. Nor as often have I seen those as skilled as your company so willing to remain."

A sly smile crosses Krem's face. "The boss stays as much for his shining prince as he does for the Inquisitor. But he'd never admit to as much, isn't that right?"

"Ehhhh, don't start with that. Dorian and I are fine whether we're together here or not. I stay because there's still more the Chargers can do."

Dorian? Fenris must've heard wrong. "You are involved with the mage?"

"Yeah, it's a long story. Well, not that long. It started as fighting, mostly. Then the fighting turned into yelling. And the yelling turned into sex. You know how it is."

The other two men look at each other briefly. Krem raises his shoulders.

"What? Ah, come on. It's not like he starts throwing fireballs."

"I was more wondering how it works with him being Tevinter." Fenris wishes to ignore any details of their intimate encounters, if possible.

"Ah. It's funny, right? His people hate my people, we all fight each other. Then the two of us get mixed up in stuff down here and suddenly there's not as much difference between us."

"He is an altus, and could possibly be a magister some day. That does not bother you?"

"If there's one Vint noble who's able to look at himself and say 'shit, maybe everyone back home is kind of an asshole', it's him. He might be pretentious, spoiled, and loud, but he is a good guy."

Fenris supposes he can accept this answer as well as any. The mage may never earn his own trust, and Fenris certainly did not care much after the little he's spoken to him, but gaining the trust of the people in the Inquisition must count for something.

"I can't argue if him being here pisses you off, though, given your life." Bull looks to Fenris, almost as if he was debating not making mention.

"Yes. I was a slave to a magister most of my life. I eventually escaped."

Bull takes a large gulp from his tankard. "We've all heard the basics. Varric gave some great details in his book. It's impressive you were able to fend off slavers for so long."

Fenris closes his eyes. Is there anyone in Skyhold that hasn't read that damned book? "It… yes. It was at times difficult evading his men." He looks to Krem, now. "But you are of Tevinter as well, are you not?"

"I am. While I do not begin to compare my struggles to yours, I think I may understand them a little."

Krem precedes to tell Fenris some of the details surrounding his earlier life, including his father's difficulties and enslavement, his time in the Imperial military, and escaping from the Imperium. Bull fills in some additional details of their first meeting on the Nevarran border.

"I… am sorry." Fenris attempts.

"It's fine. We all have our share of things we'd rather put behind us, right? Besides, the Chargers are all the family I could ever ask for."

Deep down, Fenris thinks he knows exactly what Krem means.

* * *

Nearly a week passes before they hear confirmation of the plan.

Word is received from Orlais: The Empress will allow such an experiment at Adamant, on the condition that a detachment of the Imperial Army be present in the event something should go awry.

The Inquisitor, Fenris, Varric, and Dorian will comprise the rescue team. The Inquisitor's mark is required to open a rift and lead them into the Fade. Dorian must be present to perform the time magic spell once they are on the other side.

It is agreed that the team should be kept small, to avoid any unnecessary risks.

The Chargers, minus Iron Bull, will be present at the fortress in case any demons manage to slip through. They will help hold the line while the Inquisitor's team is inside.

The group sets out from Skyhold in early morning. Each is assigned a mount, with the Inquisitor leading on the back of a graceful Red Hart.

Fenris is given a hearty Ferelden horse, which he is wholly unexperienced in riding. After some pointers from Varric, and a little help up from Krem, they set out.

They reach the far side of the Frostbacks by afternoon, descending toward the Dales. The first night they camp in the Emprise du Lion. The area appears to be on the road to recovery after the impact by the Red Templars.

Most of Fenris' time is spent quietly contemplating the countryside. Varric attempts conversation now and then, which he entertains. In the evenings, the Chargers are prone to break into song as drinks are unpacked and enjoyed with a meal.

Dorian seems to be enjoying himself as well, but keeps his distance from the elf. Fenris would not complain were it not for the mage's occasional glances. He catches one every so often, Dorian looking up from whatever book he has brought along, as if staring right through him.

Fenris hopes it is nothing more than curiosity, as with his previous traveling companions en route to Kirkwall. He will try his best to avoid confrontation. The mage is, after all, a cornerstone of this effort.

Travel through the Dales is easy, especially on horseback. The late autumn air is cool and welcoming, with leaves beginning to fall from the trees that dot the vast Exaulted Plains.

In late afternoon on the second day, a Dalish camp is encountered along the Evanuris river. The Inquisitor seems to know them, and inquires from a tall elven man with gray hair as to the group's wellbeing. Their keeper, Fenris realizes. That night they camp nearby, sharing a meal with the clan. The elves seem cautious, but not unwelcoming of their guests.

While he quietly sits by the fire, Fenris cannot help but think of Marethari, lost many years ago due to Merrill's stubbornness.

The next day they arrive in Val Firmin. It is larger than Jader, with grand estates visible througout the vast hills and overlooking the nearby lake. A quick replenish of supplies, and they are off as quickly as they arrived.

Their travel begins to become more difficult after they break from the Imperial Highway and push into the far edge of Orlais, coming nearer to the Western Approach. The grasses of the plains slowly begin to recede as rocky lands yield to dust, and finally sand. The air becomes hot and dry. The group finds an occasional quillback. Only one gives them any trouble, and is easily dispatched.

On the fifth night, they make camp a final time before their expected arrival at Adamant. As night falls, the warm desert air drops into a cold chilling breeze.

They sit around the campfire in near silence, now, the days of happy adventuring giving way to tired backs and anxiety of the day to come. The Chargers have already retired to their tents. Varric is cleaning the sand from Bianca's mechanisms, while the Inquisitor relaces one of her boots.

Fenris is debating retiring as well, when he feels Dorian's gaze upon him once more. He looks up to the man quickly snapping eyes back to a book. He is growing tired of it.

"Is there something you want mage?" Fenris does not say it with any particular volume, but he can hear the impatience in his own voice.

Dorian looks up, a bit startled, mouth opening briefly before closing again. He appears to reconsider what he was thinking to say. "No. Sorry."

A light wind crossing through the camp makes the last embers in the campfire crackle and pop.

Fenris rises to his feet. "I am taking a walk."

The others do not say anything, only watching as strides out of the camp.

With each step, his boots sink slightly into the sand. He wishes now he'd left them behind in Skyhold, or at least attempted to tie them to his pack.

The sharp moonlight above illuminates the desert floor, making it easy to navigate in the dark. Not that there is much out here aside from the occasional outcropping of rock or gnarled tree.

He is a good distance from the camp when he looks back and sees the silhouettes of tents against the bright firelight.

As his eyes refocus, he spots a figure in the space between. It is also silhouetted by the fire, and only when it closes near to him does he realize it's Dorian.

"What do you want?" He says flatly.

"I realize that I've not been very discreet. I did not intend to make you uncomfortable."

"You are not the first mage to take interest in the markings. I am not some curiosity for you or anyone else to study."

"It… isn't that."

"What, then?" From what little Fenris has learned of the mage, shyness is not one of his traits.

"I saw you once, before. A long time ago. I don't imagine that you would remember, or that you would even wish to."

Fenris searches the man's face, trying to place him in his memory before they'd met at Skyhold. For an instant, the thought crosses his mind that that the mage might've encountered him before his markings were given. The short bursts of memory he's recovered over the years are still fractured and confusing.

"It was before you escaped Tevinter, at a salon in Minrathous. I was nineteen at the time, I think. He… demonstrated your abilities; Put you on display for the other guests."

Fenris' feels his face flush red. Has the mage come to taunt him, then?

"I just wanted to say… I am sorry for what you were subjected to." Dorian looks as though he expects the elf to strike. He can clearly see his shoulders are tense.

"You pretend to know anything of what I suffered?"

"I do not. I only know what little I've been told, and even less that I've seen first hand."

"Did you not yourself keep slaves?"

"My family did, yes. But like so many others my vision was clouded and I turned a blind eye to the suffering of so many."

"And you believe you have any power to help the slaves of Tevinter?"

"I would not have considered it, honestly, until I met the Inquisitor, and my eyes were opened a bit more to life outside of the Imperium. She showed me that one person can have the power to change things."

"I would imagine the other magisters would disagree."

"Oh, you are very right. But I'm not at magister — not yet. Do not get me wrong. There are good qualities to be found in our homeland. But they are outweighed by the obvious detractions. I hope to one day change it for the better."

"It is a very unselfish thought, but as we stand here it is just a thought. If you truly wish to make a difference, prove it."

"I would welcome the opportunity."

* * *

It is mid-afternoon when they arrive. Just after they ascend a dune, the fortress rises into view, a dark stone scar on the edge of the sandy cliffs.

A group of Inquisition and Orlesian soldiers greet them as they reach the gates. The Inquisitor offers a formal greeting.

The fortress, Fenris observes, is badly damaged. The front gates are cracked and splintered where they were caved in with a battering ram, which now sits off to the side of the entryway.

Everyone is very quiet as they dismount and walk through the fortress, gaining their bearings. Only the Inquisitor speaks, giving quiet orders of where to set up and how to organize.

They enter the large courtyard square. A shattered fountain sits in the center, its basin full of debris. This, the Inquisitor explains, is where they will start.

"The rift we emerged from was here. If we want to make things easiest, we should attempt to open one in the same spot," she says.

"This might be a little late… but has anyone considered that the Nightmare might still be right on the other side six months later?" Varric asks.

"I had given it some thought. When the rift was open before, you could see into it. It was like looking into a broken mirror. I've realized we could see it even then." Lavellan is walking around the fountain, investigating. "If we open it, and see something similar, we should be able to close it again without much risk."

The Inquisitor comes to a stop near a large fallen wall stone on the far side of the fountain. "Dorian, I believe this is the best place."

He moves to join her. "Very well. We can get set up then." Dorian motions to two of the soldiers, who carry in a medium-sized crate. Lifting the lid, the two pull from it one of the elven artifacts. They set it atop the stone near the Inquisitor.

Everyone begins to assemble in the courtyard. The Chargers set up position with the soldiers.

"We're ready when you are, Your Worship." Krem has the Chargers fan out, taking positions appropriate for their skills.

"Well… there isn't much left to do than try this," Lavellan says. "You're sure the artifact is ready?"

Dorian moves alongside it. "Yes. I wasn't about to test it in Skyhold, mind you, but I believe all of my modifications were successful." He pauses and looks up. "I'll deny it if you were ever tell him I said so, but Solas' notes came in quite handy."

Fenris notices the slightest annoyance on The Inquisitor's face at Dorian's comment. He isn't sure why.

"Alright, everyone. Stand ready."

She nods to Dorian, and he activates the artifact. A low resonance is heard, and soon it begins emit a bright orange glow.

For several moments, nothing happens. The Inquisitor lifts her arm, turning it over to examine her palm. There is no particular difference.

From the back ranks, someone sneezes. It is followed by a very quiet "Sorry."

Lavellan is just about to say something to Dorian when she feels the mark on her hand begin to pulse. Slowly its distinctive green glow begins to emerge.

"I think it's working," she says.

Fenris begins to feel a strange tingling sensation across his skin.

All around the fountain, small dots of green energy begin to fill the air, like ashen embers falling from a nearby fire. Suddenly, her mark snaps to life.

"Aaaugh," She cringes. Varric looks to her, concerned, but she gives him an affirmed nod. "As many times as that has happened it always feels just as weird." She releases a heavy sigh. "Everyone ready?"

The others nod, each assuming a battle stance. Lavellan extends her arm into the air, and breathes. The mark pulses once, then twice, then several times in succession, each time glowing brighter. In an instant, the air around them gains an electric edge.

Fenris' tattoos are driven alight in reaction to the energy. He closes his eyes, adjusting to the discomfort.

Just above the fountain the green particles rapidly converge, and with a ear-splitting _crack_ they explode outward.

In the wake remains a bright green rift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gives us a little more interaction between Fenris and the Inquisition. I always imagined that he'd get along well with Bull and Krem, and there'd be more than a few stories to share between them.
> 
> As the story pushes into action, I'm trying to be faithful to lore and mechanics in the DA universe, and pay respect to what might already have precedent (like the time magic).


	6. Fear

Fenris' heartbeat is in his ears. His marks itch from ambient magic in the air. He holds his sword with a firm grip.

The Inquisitor and Dorian have drawn their battlestaves. Varric nocks a crossbow bolt. They all stand ready, waiting for whatever may spill from the rift.

It shifts and shimmers in midair. But nothing emerges.

Fenris thinks he can just make out a rocky landscape within. The Inquisitor is right. It seems as though he is staring through a very cloudy, broken mirror.

"Well, what now?" Varric says.

The Inquisitor slowly lowers her staff. "Now we go in."

"Is it that easy?" Fenris asks. "Just walk through?"

"Almost all of the rifts we've encountered aren't as large as this one." The Inquisitor is approaching it, now. "Their edge… their portal… whatever you would call it is comparatively small, but still large enough where demons can slip through. This one, though, should be plenty large enough for us to pass."

She stands near the rift unblinking, as if staring into oblivion itself. With a calm breath, her arm rises and pushes forward.

Her hand disappears into the green fog. Immediately after, she pulls it out once again. It appears unharmed.

"Alright, everyone. Follow me."

She is gone in the blink of an eye.

The three look to one another for a moment. No one seems pressed to move. Then, with a huff, Fenris seats his sword and dashes through.

It is an unexpected sensation. Not pain, nor force. Fenris expects resistance of some kind but feels none, like walking through flames that carry no heat.

He stops just short of Lavellan as he emerges. A few heartbeats later Varric appears, followed by Dorian.

The four look out from a tall precipice of rock. Everything is sickly green, black, and brown. Far below there is a large lake, and above it float several sharp boulders. The descent in front of them is not greatly steep, but is littered with debris. There are no apparent demons or movement.

"No demons? I thought they congregated around rifts and where the Veil was thin," Dorian asks.

"Well, this appears to be the right spot. Those are the colonnades where we fought the fear demon." Lavellan points down the hill. At its base sit the ruins of a structure, perhaps only a reflection of something real, an imitation observed through the Fade.

"That means the big guy would've been just over there." Varric gestures to their left, to a large plateau halfway down.

"Let's take a look," the Inquisitor says. The four cautiously begin moving towards it.

Fenris begins to feel a strong sense of anxiety. Halfway to the plateau, he freezes up.

The thought of finding Hawke's remains is too much.

Varric has slowed, as well, noticing his absence. Both he and the Inquisitor look back and see Fenris standing motionless. The dwarf meets his eyes briefly, seeming to understand. He nods and the three continue forward.

Fenris feels his heart beating out of his chest. Why… why are they even looking. Isn't the plan to cast the spell _before_ they find Hawke?

What feels like an agonizing eternity is likely only a few moments. The Inquisitor and Dorian quickly survey the area as Varric looks around the center of the clearing. After a while, all three seem to decide that there is nothing to be found.

Fenris takes a few shallow breaths, steels himself, and walks forward. He joins the others just as they seem to be confident that the Nightmare, and Hawke, are not there.

"You alright?" the dwarf asks.

"This is more difficult than I'd imagined."

"I know how you feel, broody."

The Inquisitor approaches them, now. "We should find another spot nearby to perform the spell. Somewhere not immediately visible. If we end up succeeding, we don't want the Nightmare to notice us. Or ourselves, for that matter."

"The last time I cast this spell, it was rather bright. We should perhaps move down toward that lake," Dorian offers. "There's enough ambient light and reflection that it should help mask it."

"Very well. This way, then." The Inquisitor starts walking down the hill, toward a shallow valley. "Everyone stay on guard. If the demon should pay us a visit now, we may need to sprint back to the rift as fast as possible."

As they travel, the scenery only seems to make less sense. On the wall of a rocky cliff, a table sits perpendicular to the ground, and on it are three hands of cards. Each hand appears to belong to a different deck.

"This place is peculiar," Fenris says.

"Trust me, it gets weirder. Stick around for awhile and it starts picking creepy shit from your own mind." Varric seems to shake off the thought with a shiver.

"Speaking of, if anyone happens to spot an apparition of a bald elf with poor communication skills wandering around, do tell me." The Inquisitor does not turn around as she dryly makes the jest.

\---

As they reach the water's edge, Fenris realizes that it is not some illusion, but actual water.

"The last time, we theorized this may had poured through from a rift that opened in a body of water, like Crestwood," Dorian explains. "A rift formed in the middle of its lake. I'll never be able to get the image of corpses rising from the water out of my mind."

"It was better than the corpses in those tunnels," The Inquisitor adds.

They begin looking around the shore for an acceptable spot.

Just down the shoreline, Fenris spots a tall silhouette jutting out of the ground beside a cliff. As he approaches, it starts to reveal more detail. It is made of stone. It looks elven.

The Inquisitor also sees it, now. "Mythal's mercy. An eluvian?"

"Eluvian? Like the one Merrill obsessed over?" Fenris asks.

The mirror's glass is shattered. Some small shards lie on the ground before them.

"Yeah… we've found a few more of them," Varric says as he approaches. "Well… found isn't the right word. Stumbled upon through others' machinations, maybe?"

Lavellan looks curiously at it, as well.

"I suppose this is as good a place as any," Dorian says. "We're far enough a way from where the Nightmare would've been, and I know we didn't walk along here when we came through before."

"Alright. What do you need to get started?" the Inquisitor asks.

"I'll need a bit to properly cast the spell. I've had to carefully calculate the specifics, so we'll arrive at the correct time. If I'm off by too much, we could end up arriving too late, or far too early."

"Just to make sure… have you already made your calculations to get us _back_?" Varric asks.

"Yes, Varric, I have." Dorian lets out a small laugh. "Assuming this works and we are able to distract the giant monster and get away, that is. That I leave up to you all."

Fenris looks out toward the lake. Small waves seem to emanate from nothing.

\---

After some time and considerable magical flare, Dorian motions that he is ready. The group gather around him as the spell he casts gains momentum. He holds the amulet in his hand, and it glows a bright greenish-blue color. All around them, waves of magical energy begin to swirl.

"Yes, I believe this will do just fine!" he says over the loudening rush of wind. "The energy here us is fueling the spell far better than I could've hoped!"

Fenris feels his marks once again resonate in reaction to the ambient magic. The light is bright. He focuses his eyes outward and hopes it will conclude soon.

At the top of the cliffs he notices a figure rise. Then another. Then several more.

He points. "Shades!"

They have noticed the group, and are descending the vertical cliff face as if it were flat ground.

"Any time, Sparkler!"

"Almost, just give me a moment more!"

The shades begin to close rapidly. A rage demon is there, now, as well, sliding down the cliff like red-hot jelly.

"We might not have a moment!" Varric lets loose a bolt from Bianca. It hits the nearest shade square in the face, the demon screeching as it begins to dissolve.

The Inquisitor throws out a fireball from her staff, hitting just between two shades. They halt for a moment, sundered, but start moving again soon after.

Fenris has drawn his greatsword now and stands to pounce.

"Stay where you are!" Dorian yells. "If you move this will all be undone!"

The shades are encircling them. One more is taken down by Varric's crossbow. A second fireball from the Inquisitor destroys another.

The rage demon is nearly upon them. Fenris can feel the heat as it strains upward in a stretching mass. It moves to strike.

"Now!" Dorian yells, as he releases the amulet's energy, enveloping the group in a deep black vortex of wind. A massive cloud of dust is thrown around them.

Suddenly, it is quiet.

The dust quickly settles. The demons are gone.

"Everyone alright?" Varric asks. "Did it work?"

"I think it did," Dorian answers.

Everyone cautiously lowers their weapons.

Fenris looks around them. The lake looks unchanged. As does the rocky cliffside. There is no sign of the shades, rage demon, or any of their remains.

Then he notices it. The mirror, once shattered, is again whole. It surface reflects the light in an odd shimmer.

"Well… that's something," Varric says.

The Inquisitor walks toward it. "It's open. Unlocked."

As the other three consider the mirror, Fenris suddenly feels anxious. "If the mage was successful then we must move."

The others seem to realize the importance of his statement, then.

The Inquisitor looks back toward the path. "Right. Let's go. And hope that Dorian's spell took us to the right time."

\---

Fenris is leading just a bit ahead of the others. He is impatient. This is it. If the magic worked, Hawke should be here.

He is just about to climb a small ridge when they hear it. A booming, unnerving voice.

"Your Inquisitor is a fraud, Cassandra. Yet more evidence there is no Maker, that all your 'faith' has been for naught."

"Die in the Void, demon."

The second voice is one he's heard before. It's the Seeker's voice. Her Nevarran accent is clear. It is coming from above the ridge. Fenris ducks down as the other three reach him.

The Inquisitor speaks in a whisper: "Well… I suppose we found the right moment. Let's make sure we don't mess anything up."

A few moments later, another callout from the booming voice.

"Greetings, Dorian… it is Dorian, isn’t it? For a moment, I mistook you for your father."

"Rather uncalled for."

The others look toward the mage, who is silent. He has a rather pale look on his face having heard his own voice.

They begin to slowly follow the ridge from below, tailing the voices, trying to avoid any possible confrontation with their past selves.

Another moment passes, and another callout.

"Once again, Hawke is in danger because of you, Varric. You found the red lyrium. You brought Hawke here…"

"Oh, no," Varric whispers from just beside Fenris. He is looking down, for a brief moment shaken.

"Just keep talking, Smiley."

He looks back up at the others and whispers, "I don't actually sound like that, do I?"

Fenris remembers then how hard this must be for Varric, as well.

They move a bit further up the ridge. Dorian's foot slips a bit, dropping him back down a step and bumping into Varric. The group steadies themselves and looks around. Nothing to indicate they'd alerted anyone.

"Warden Stroud. How must it feel to devote your whole life to the wardens, only to watch them fall? Or worse, to know that you were responsible for their destruction? When the next Blight comes, will they curse your name?"

"With the Maker’s blessing, we will end this wretched beast."

As they follow further, the path comes nearer to the ruins. They can hear the others take up fighting. A worried look crosses Fenris' face, and he reaches for his sword. The Inquisitor notices and holds out her hand in a gesture of pause.

"Not yet. Just some demons," she whispers.

He stands down. Waiting in cover while he hears the others fighting is infuriating. If only he could see him. Help him.

The thought is interrupted by the Nightmare's voice.

"Do you think it mattered, Hawke? Do you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn’t even save your city. How could you expect to strike down a god. Fenris is going to die, just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about."

"Well, that’s going to grow tiresome quickly."

Fenris feels his heart leap into his throat. It is pounding hard enough that his ears are ringing. He truly is here.

He can barely feel his feet as they move forward once again. With each step the atmosphere around them seems to grow heavier. They are almost to the ruins, now.

One more voice shouts outward.

"Tell Leliana, 'I'm sorry. I failed you, too.'"

The Inquisitor gestures. "This is it. Get ready."

The four are on edge as they hear the past Inquisitor's party begin the fight. Fireballs and lighting strike hard, sending the hard sound of cracks into the rock above. The screeching of a demon, one unlike anything Fenris has heard before. The sound of many somethings scurrying along the ground.

A loud battle cry from the Seeker, followed by the telltale sound of Bianca's trigger being pulled. More wails of demons, now, as the Nightmare taunts them.

Finally, after several long minutes, they hear a horrifying wail as the lesser demon and its minions succumb.

"Hurry! We must get to the rift!" It's the Inquisitor's voice above, now.

Fenris rises just enough to look over the edge of the short wall. A massive demon stands on the plateau. It is larger than anything he's imagined. Below, he can see six silhouettes, dwarfed by its size. As the demon moves to block their path, three of the figures begin to sprint toward the rift. The Nightmare pays them little attention, instead moving for the remaining three.

The three stand for a moment. They're speaking, but Fenris cannot hear. A heartbeat later one of them moves away, running toward the demon. The other two break off for the rift.

This is it. Their one chance.

Fenris is about to give chase when he hears Dorian's yell.

"Watch out!"

The ghastly claws of a shade narrowly miss him, as a fireball slams into it. It screams and begins to dissolve. Fenris looks back to see that a large group of demons is upon them.

He turns toward the Nightmare briefly. He doesn't see the silhouette, it's moved out of sight. The huge demon is still there, swinging its legs rapidly.

Conflicted. Torn. With an angry yell he grips his sword, turns, and defends his companions.

Jumping forward, he slices through a shade that stands directly in front of Varric. It is enough to open space for the dwarf to regain his footing, and rearm Bianca. The Inquisitor is dueling with a despair demon, it screeching wail piercing the air. Dorian blasts another ball of fire over their heads to impact two more shades coming upon them.

No, this can't happen. There is not enough time for this. Fenris feels his anxiety boiling over. His marks are fully alight as he slides his clawed gauntlet through another shade's face, pulling out masses of black ooze in fistfuls before it screams and dies.

He rushes over to the Inquisitor just in time to slice another shade in half. The despair demon fires off a cold chilling blast that painfully impacts Fenris' shoulder. She takes the opportunity to strike, and finishes off the demon. The last shade falls to Dorian's staff blade, from the ground where he's been knocked down, the demon dissolving along the rocky slope.

A quick look. The demons are all dead. The Inquisitor is helping Dorian up. Fenris does not think.

He jumps over the wall and starts sprinting.

\---

The tension of the upcoming battle rides high.

"I may not get the chance to say this again. Meeting you… was the most important thing that's ever happened to me, Hawke. Promise me you won't die. I can't bear the thought of living without you."

"I don't make that promise, unless you do."

"Nothing is going to keep me from you."

\---

The Nightmare is larger than any demon he's seen before. Too large to fight and win alone. Its legs slash about, he can barely avoid them. A quick dodge. It moves to strike, but misses. Duck under it further. Then a brief window. An opening. He drives upward, slicing into a leg just enough to make it seep an unholy black miasma.

But another leg swipes forward, too quick to dodge away. It impacts him square in the chest and knocks him back. Falling to the ground, he lets out a wheeze as the air is knocked from his lungs. It feels as though his ribs are broken. Through the painful daze he sees the leg rise into the air, sharp point aiming to dive straight into him. His staff is out of reach.

Hawke closes his eyes. "I'm sorry, love."

It is then that he feels a figure dive in front of him. A flash of steel deflects the pincer as it falls. It lands to the ground beside him with a strong thud.

His eyes open wide, now. What he is seeing cannot be real.

A blur of bluish-white light. A pulse of energy that pushes back the leg once more, the Nightmare wailing in annoyance. One, two, three hard upward thrusts to its underbelly, causing blackness to spill forth. It screams, and stumbles back a bit, no longer hovering above Hawke.

Three more figures appear in his periphery. One on each side grab his arms. For a moment he thinks they are demons, come to tear him apart. Then he realizes one has Varric's face. Another, the Inquisitor's.

Why? Why did they turn back?

He feels the ground beneath his feet as they right him. Somehow he manages to stand. Dorian is there, too, grabbing Hawke's fallen staff before throwing out a volley of fireballs toward the demon.

His arm wraps around the Inquisitor's shoulders as she helps quickly steer him away. His chest is burning from the pain of the Nightmare's impact, but together they begin running.

"Now, broody! Get out of there!" Is all he hears. It's Varric's voice.

Varric turns back toward the demon and extends Bianca. A sizable glass canister is attached to a bolt. He pulls the trigger and the entire thing is launched upwards in a long arc. It smashes into the Nightmare's face and explodes with a heavy haze.

The demon screams in pain and drops back, its hind legs collapsing.

"That probably won't give us much time. We need to run!"

They break into a sprint. Hawke feels as though his abdomen will pull apart. Each struggled breath is agony.

Down the path, and toward the lake. They arrive at the water's edge, stopping just short. The screams of the Nightmare can still be heard.

"It is coming. We do not have much time."

Who said that? It sounded like… Hawke is looking around, but his vision is still blurry.  
  
"There's not enough time for me to cast. We have to get further away!"

"It will easily outrun us."

"Inquisitor! The eluvian, can you open it?"

"I will try."

Hawke feels the Inquisitor release his arm and he falls to sit on his heels.

A few moments later, a cold rush of magic flows past, like a cool summer's breeze.

"Alright, everyone through, hurry!"

A strong pair of hands takes hold of him, wrapping one arm around his back. A flash of white hair.

Three figures run through the mirror.

Hawke's vision focuses enough to see him, now.

"Fenris? How?"

"Not now."

A great crash is heard behind them, followed by a horrifying screech. A shockwave hits Hawke in the back. The demon is upon them.

There is just enough time. They leap through the mirror.

\---

Just after passing through, a blast of dust and rocks fly through the mirror. It's surface stutters and warps, magical energy shedding off in wisps. In an instant it turns dark and gray.

Lavellan looks back, breathing heavily. "I guess we know now how it shattered."

Dorian is coughing dust out of his lungs. His staff has tangled in the tail of his robes. Varric is sitting on the ground, exhausted. Bianca lies to his side. He is looking at Hawke, who is kneeling beside Fenris, still supported by the elf's arm.

Hawke is staring at Fenris. "How… what just happened? How are you here?" He breathing is shallow and forced.

"It is a long story" Fenris says.

"I saw you and Stroud run for the rift," he says, looking toward the Inquisitor. "The next thing I know, I'm about to die. Then, you're all back. And you…" He looks to Fenris again. "Maker please tell me you're not some Fade illusion, or spirits who decided to play dress-up."

"We're real, Hawke," Varric offers.

Hawke's eyes move to Fenris' shoulder. It is bleeding, mixing with caked dirt. "You're hurt."

"I am fine. You are in worse condition," he says as he moves to lower Hawke to the ground.

Hawke releases a pained groan. "I think you're right. I may have broken a couple of ribs."

Lavellan moves over quickly, pulling a flask from her pouch. "Here… drink this, and let me look."

Hawke is laid back onto the ground, his armor and tunic pulled back and out of the way. His chest and abdomen are bright red. Lavellan moves her hand to gently touch his ribs, along each one, counting downward from one side to the next. When she reaches just above his stomach he winces.

"I don't think they're broken, but they are likely cracked or bruised. The elfroot potion should help until we can get back."

"Where are we?" Fenris asks, looking beyond their group for the first time. The entire area is quiet, with a cool brightness that does not seem to come from any particular source.

A great number of eluvians are visible as far as the eye can see, each with its own shape and form. Some are against walls, others stand alone.

"The Crossroads, from the look of it," Lavellan says.

Fenris looks at her questioningly. "I take it you've been here before?"

"Yes, on two occasions. Although I'm not familiar with this part."

They appear to be sitting along a path within a large garden. The stone walkways criss-cross in architected patterns. Hedges have greatly overgrown to cover some paths, while in other places the plants have turned brown and withered. There is little sound other than their own voices and movement.

"Each time it is different. I wonder how large the network really is."

"Well, for the moment it appears we are out of danger," Dorian says. He is looking around nearby.

Lavellan looks toward the mage as she dusts herself off. "Do you think you will be able to cast the spell from here?"

"Let's hope so. Because that particular path into the Fade is clearly out of the question, for a number of reasons."

"What spell?" Hawke asks, looking up again. The color in his face appears a bit better.

Varric chuckles. "That's another long story."

\---

"So… you're from the future?" A pause. "How far?"

"Six months, give or take a few days," Dorian answers.

"Well… at least I don't have to worry about meeting everyone's great-grandchildren. But, the Breach? And Corypheus?"

"Closed. And dead. For good, this time," Varric nods.

Hawke visibly relaxes. "Maker, that's the first good news I've heard in a long time. I can't believe you managed to do it."

"_I_ can't believe we managed to pull this off," Varric nods. "As much hope as I had for this plan, there was still part of me that though it would be impossible. Or that we'd all die."

"Thank you again, Varric," Hawke says. "You've always been there to back me up, and pull my arse out of a fight I can't hope to win."

"It's a little something I learned after you fought a certain hulking Qunari warlord."

"Thank you, all of you," Hawke says again. He looks to the group, then at Fenris; He stares deeply into the elf's eyes for the first time since they'd arrived.

"We should take a look around," Lavellan says.

The not so subtle hint taken, the others move off, giving Hawke and Fenris a moment together. After they are out of earshot, Hawke looks again to his lover.

"Fen, you really trekked all the way to Skyhold?"

The elf nods. "We made a promise. You did not return, so I intended to find out why."

The man's eyes look downward in shame. "I'm… sorry. That I broke that promise."

"It is alright, Hawke." Fenris' voice is soft. "I was angry at first. But I understand now what the stakes were. I am just very glad to see you."

Hawke seems to quietly reflect for a moment.

"Did you get all of my letters?"

"Yes. Although, I admit I was negligent in responding."

"It was enough for me to know that you were safe."

Hawke brings his head to rest on the elf's shoulder. Fenris cannot help but be reminded of the night in Hawke's library, propped in front of the fireplace as he began nodding off. It seems so long ago, yet here they are, together once more.

Hawke's arm wraps around him as he looks up. Fenris' eyes are staring into him.

"This still feels too good to be true. Please tell me again that you aren't a spirit," Hawke asks.

Fenris brings his face down to him, meeting the man's lips. It's been so very long. Long enough that the others' being so close nearby puts no hesitation on Fenris' desire to feel Hawke's embrace.

After a time, Hawke opens his eyes. "Maker… no spirit could fake that."

Fenris' lips crack a smile.

\---

While the pair reacquaints themselves, Lavellan has joined Dorian along the path. "Find anything?" she asks.

"Nothing out of the ordinary. Whatever might be described as 'ordinary' here. This place reminds me of when I'd wander the halls of the Magisterium late at night. Creepy shadows around every corner." He lets out an awkward laugh.

Lavellan looks toward him with a curious look.

"There is something else. It appears the amulet was damaged when I used it." He holds it outward in his palm, tracing a small hairline crack with the tip of his finger.

"Can it be repaired?"

"Yes, given some time. It'd be faster if I had some tools from Skyhold, but I think I can make due."

"Well, it appears that time is something we have an abundance of." She looks out toward the horizon.

"What about the Chargers and our soldiers? If we don't return through the rift they may be out there for some time."

"Don't worry about that. I gave Krem orders that if we do not return by sundown they were to reactivate the artifact to its original behavior. Dirthamen willing, with the Breach gone, the rift should seal itself. It was always a possibility that we wouldn't return the same way."

"Or at all," Varric says in dark humor, walking up to join them. "Oh, don't give me that look, Sparkler. I'm just trying to ease the mood."

Dorian looks to him with a caustic expression. "Varric, I meant to ask. Just what was in that little surprise of yours you fired off into the Nightmare's face?"

"Oh, a little variant on a confusion grenade. Pitch tar, powdered deathroot, a bit of wyvern venom, and a few other ingredients even Sera wouldn't tell me the names of. I'm not sure I want to know, honestly."

"That's… almost mean," the mage says with a sly smile. "Almost."

Lavellan sighs to herself, looking back briefly at the pair beside the eluvian. "We need to find a way through the Crossroads. If we happen upon a familiar path, we might be able to navigate to Skyhold. Or, if not, we will hopefully find a mirror that leads _somewhere_ in Thedas."

"I didn't think I would ever say this," Dorian confides, "but Morrigan's assistance would be welcome."

The Inquisitor smiles. "Okay. We shall take a rest." She looks back to Hawke and Fenris, who are still catching up. "Then, I suppose we'll wander until we find a path forward."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke's "final" moments in Inquisition if he's left behind can be heartbreaking, and I wanted to touch on that; Hawke, after all, knows he's only keeping the monster at bay for the others to escape. It must be such a strong emotional confusion that suddenly someone else is there at his side.
> 
> In Hawke's story, he is so rarely the one to be rescued; same for the Inquisitor. I like the dynamic that every now and then the "protagonist" of a story is upended and has to rely on their friends to save them.


	7. Found

Fenris isn't sure how the Inquisitor navigates this place.

After they'd set out, slowly due to Hawke's injury, they'd followed a large, main avenue through the area. They've passed through several sectioned-off parts of the gardens, but all of the eluvians investigated thus far have been locked, damaged, or otherwise dormant. None seem to provide a path forward.

"I wonder where all of these lead. Or, led, I guess." Varric is standing next to another dormant mirror. It surface reflects the soft light around them in a strange spectrum.

"Dalish legends say that the elves of Arlathan used the mirrors to travel and communicate between their cities and outputs," Lavellan offers. "A good number likely once led to what are now ruins. I never thought I'd actually see one until Morrigan showed me."

"Imagine how different things would be if we could move across Thedas in an instant," Dorian laments. "You could be in Val Royeaux at breakfast and Minrathous for afternoon tea."

"Spies and armies could also move undetected," Fenris says dryly. "Perhaps that hubris contributed to the sudden fall of the elven empire."

"I suppose it's too much to ask that we find one that leads to a tavern," Hawke says. "I don't know about any of you, but I hadn't eaten much before we stormed Adamant."

Fenris reaches into his pouch and pulls the remainder of his rations from it. He offers half to Hawke, biting into the other half himself. "How are you faring?" He asks.

"I've been better, but all things considered, I'm fine. Just a bit painful to walk. And breathe. The elfroot's helping. I'd kill for a drink, though."

Fenris smirks.

\---

Hawke drops himself into a chair at their usual table with a groan. Fenris takes the seat beside him, and Isabela slides gracefully sideways into another and drapes her legs over the arm.

It had been a long day; Their tip from Aveline had turned out to be correct. They'd discovered a rogue apostate in the Docks doing dirty work for the Carta; They had faced a large group of shades and a rage demon that the mage was able to summon before falling.

As Varric stands at the bar ordering a round drinks, Hawke slouches forward onto the table, resting his face on his crossed arms.

"No more demons. They aren't even fun to fight anymore. They're just angry."

"Aw, cheer up. At least we got paid this time," Isabela purrs. She is casually cleaning one of her daggers.

"I'm going to have shade sludge in my boots for a week," he retorts, his voice slightly muffled into his arms. "It sticks to everything."

"The smell of sulfur is worse," Fenris adds.

"Perhaps I can help with that," Varric says, arriving at the table. "This ale is guaranteed to curtail your sense of smell and taste for at least a day." He holds four tankards in his hands, passing them out.

"Varric, you are wonderful." Hawke says, rising from his trance.

"So they say," the dwarf hums. "Are we expecting anyone else tonight?"

"Merrill might join us soon. Aveline has 'reports to catch up on', which is code for a night in with Donnic."

"Ah, our little miss married has found better company," Isabela says, pouting.

"…and I don't know about Anders. I haven't seen him for several days. Lately he spends all his time holed up in his clinic."

"Writing more of his manifestos, no doubt," Fenris glowers as he takes a drink of his ale. He makes a slight face as the bitter taste hits his tongue.

"It's more than that. He's been quieter. Won't really talk even to me. I think the rumors coming out of the Gallows are weighing heavily on him."

Varric takes a long drink. "Things aren't exactly calm around here. My contact in the Gallows mentioned the Knight-Commander has been even angrier than usual these days."

"Whatever the mage's current grievance it had better not entice the Templars to consider coming after you," Fenris says.

"Meredith knows I am a mage, but she also named me Champion, for whatever that's worth. If she intended to come knocking at my door, she would have by now."

"She'd find a great deal of resistance from most of the nobles in Hightown, and pretty much everyone in Lowtown," Varric offers. "You might be the most reliable person in Kirkwall."

"I hope you're right," Fenris says quietly.

Isabela sighs. "Enough talk about mages and templars. Let's do something fun."

Varric smiles. "Anyone feel like a game of Wicked Grace?"

"Ooh, count me in," she brightens. "I still need to win back those five sovereign you stole last week."

"I told you, Rivaini, a hand with four daggers doesn't count if one of them is your boot knife."

"You're no fun," she says as Varric begins shuffling. "Whoever loses this hand buys the next round, then."

"Are you that strapped?" Hawke asks.

"It takes a lot of coin to ready a ship. New sails, the hold walls need pitched, and it's still in need of a proper captain's quarters."

"Can any bed ever truly replace your room at the Hanged Man?" Varric jests dramatically.

Fenris feels Hawke's fingers gently slide over onto his knee under the table. He moves his hand down and laces their fingers together. The mage gives him a warm look and smiles before collecting his cards with his free hand.

\---

They pass another inactive eluvian. Its edges are overgrown with vines, growing inward and covering most of the lower half.

"Well, there's something." Dorian points forward, where the stone path winds left and ends at the top of a great staircase. The group reaches the edge and realize they are at the top of a circular valley. The walls are straight stone, dropping to the ground. At the valley floor, just past the stairs, is a large building.

The structure appears to be round, and tall, its roof meeting into a great rotunda. It has no windows to speak of. The group begin the descent to the bottom, and walk slowly toward it.

On the part of the outer wall facing them, there is a set of great columns and archways in typical elven style. As they approach the entryways, the Inquisitor stops. The area inside looks dark.

Looking around for a moment, she spots a sconce embedded in one of the columns. A quick wave of her hand and it lights in the ghostly green aura of veilfire. She pulls the torch off its base, and motions forward.

The structure feels to be one large, open room. All that is before them is blackness. Fenris looks upwards but cannot make out any detail of the ceiling, for it too is pitch black. The floor below shows swirling patterns of gold and silver tile work.

The veilfire offers a bit of illumination, but not enough to give any sort of scale to the room. Dorian waves his hand and casts a magelight spell, giving some additional range to their vision.

In the center of the room, there is a short platform. The Inquisitor approaches it, and the light reveals a large firepit surrounded on each cardinal direction by a golden statue of a halla.

She tips the torch into the empty central pit. The veilfire seems to take light from nothing at all. The halla are briefly illuminated in the green aura before in a flash it burns to a more typical orange flame.

A wave of energy pours out around them. As it reaches the outer wall, a dozen or so sconces spaced evenly are brought alight.

The room is fully illuminated. Dorian lowers his hand and allows his spell to dissipate.

Along the wall stretches a great mural. Fenris has to turn completely to see it all. Each scene depicts an elf, standing tall and clothed in fine armor or robes. Beneath each is group of smaller elves, amassed together as if under their protection. One group looks to be building a grand cathedral; Another appear to be teaching children.

Lavellan looks to them in awe. "The Evanuris. Oh, these are beautiful. I've never seen anything quite like it, and certainly none so well preserved."

In between each mural is an arched alcove recessed slightly into the wall, just large enough to house an eluvian.

"Could this have been some kind of meeting place?" Dorian asks.

"It's possible. It would make sense to build such a destination within the Crossroads itself." She looks at each part of the mural. "Dirthamen, Falon'Din, June… and… wait."

Dorian looks to her. "What is it?"

She walks toward a far section of the wall in front of them, where a great elven woman's portrait is featured. Beneath it, to the right, another elf is shown. Smaller, though not as small as the masses below, with dark hair pulled into a long braid. The figure is painted with his back toward the viewer. He wears a great coat of furs and golden armor.

"There are twelve large portraits, but this thirteenth one is different. Fen'harel is depicted here," she says.

"Didn't we find a Dread Wolf statue in the Temple of Mythal?" Varric asks.

"Yes, and here he's shown at her side. It was curious then, as well."

"Isn't Fen'harel the trickster god?" Hawke asks. "Why would they paint him alongside the others?"

"Yes. He is rarely portrayed within ancient art in the same manner as the Evanuris. It's strange, his inclusion here seems almost an afterthought."

"I assure you it was never an afterthought," says a voice that belongs to none of them. It is, however, familiar. The group turn back toward the doorway to see a figure behind.

Hawke stands a bit taller at the sight. "You."

Walking closer, Flemeth smiles. "Greetings, my boy. It is good to see you yet live."

He seems to consider her for a moment. "Thanks to my friends. I still haven't figured out your dragon thing, though."

"Ah-haha!" Flemeth's laugh is somewhat maniacal. "If you'll recall, many years ago I told you to keep watch for a moment. Watch, and do not hesitate to leap into the abyss. I am glad to see you took my advice."

"Ah. To be honest, I thought that advice was about the Deep Roads. Or the Arishock. I've lost count of how many times I've lept into harm's way."

"One too many for my taste," Fenris utters under his breath.

Flemeth looks over with a grin. "And I see that the wolf remains loyal at your side."

Fenris bristles. "I remain at Hawke's side of my own choice."

"From the look of it, you would go to great lengths to save your Champion. It is fortunate you succeeded."

Fenris looks to her for a moment, weighing her comments.

"You opened the eluvian," Lavellan concludes.

"It was a very curious sensation, I experienced, of a great evil. Of a beast who began to feel all the fear it had so easily stolen from others. I looked into my dreams, and you'll imagine my surprise when I saw you…" she points to the Inquisitor, then to Hawke, "…both of you… facing the nightmare from whence few wake. I thought it be only fitting to offer a path forward, should you find your way."

"I suppose I should thank you," Hawke says.

"But how strange, that while fleeing the Fade you should find yourselves so far from the rift you were seeking. But yet did you not also find it? Very curious, indeed."

Dorian looks to the Inquisitor uncomfortably.

Flemeth steps forward, walking between them. She approaches the Inquisitor, and pauses.

"Though we have not yet been acquainted, I see from your face for in time that will change. You have overcome much, lethallan. But the trials before you are still great."

Lavellan looks at her questioningly, but before she can respond Flemeth begins walking toward the mural ahead.

She looks back briefly, and gestures the group toward one of the nearby eluvians. It comes to life with a rush of energy. "Follow your path, but when your time begins to thin, remember that those you value most may be more than who they seem."

She steps forward to another of the eluvian archways as it too opens. She steps through and is gone as quickly as she'd arrived, the eluvian closing behind her.

The group is quiet for a long moment.

"Well she hasn't changed much," Hawke says, breaking the silence.

"So… what… she could somehow sense that we're from the future?" Varric asks.

The Inquisitor sighs and looks back at the murals.

Dorian looks to the active eluvian. "At least she pointed us in a direction. Anyone opposed to taking it?"

"No objection here," Varric says. "If it's all the same to you all, I'd rather not spend the rest of my life wandering around this place."

Lavellan considers the portrait of the Dread Wolf once more. Seemingly satisfied, she looks to the group. "Let's go."

\---

After stepping through the eluvian, they find themselves somewhere familiar.

At least, the others seem to find it familiar. Fenris does not.

They stand in another large open space, the light coming from seemingly nowhere. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of mirrors dot the landscape.

"This is it. This is the area of the Crossroads we've visited before." Lavellan stands confidently. "Morrigan brought us here after we left the Temple of Mythal."

"If that's the case," Dorian starts, "which way is the mirror to Skyhold?"

Lavellan considers for a moment, scanning the horizon, before finally pointing. "It should be this way." She starts off in a direction that looks the same as any other.

After a short while, Varric looks to Hawke. The man's face seems lost in thought. "Doing okay, Hawke?"

"Yes. Just considering what Flemeth said. How could she have known what would happen ten years ago?"

"Best not to weigh so heavily on it," Fenris says. "In my experience powerful mages often enjoy taking credit for predictions which vaguely come to pass."

Hawke makes a low grunt, seemingly unconvinced.

"Broody has a point. When I was growing up, there was this seer in Kirkwall. He advertised grand predictions of love and destiny. All the stuff I heard was all pretty open to interpretation, if you ask me, but on one occasion he read for an old, sick noble in Hightown. He predicted the noble would be betrayed by his heir and lose his entire fortune. Well, some time later the man wrote his son out of his will to ensure it didn't come to pass, and left everything to his younger daughter. A month later the old noble was poisoned."

"So the son killed him? That sounds pretty accurate to me," Hawke says.

"You'd think, but it turns out that the seer was involved with the daughter. They conspired to get her father's money by convincing him to change his will. They disappeared shortly after and were never heard from again. Probably living rich off in Antiva. My point is… predictions have a habit of being self-serving and malleable."

"Hmm. Maybe you're right. Also that is a terrible story, Varric."

The dwarf smiles and laughs, Fenris believes, for the first time since they'd left Skyhold.

\---

A short time later, they come upon another small grove of mirrors. At the center is a great stone pillar, with an eluvian on each of its four sides.

The Inquisitor approaches one, feeling the sides of the frame, and then steps back to the group. "We're here. It's this one."

"Well, then I suppose I better get to work," Dorian huffs. "We don't want to step through right away. We'll end up in Skyhold six months prematurely."

"At least the Crossroads are pleasant," Hawke says. "I don't see any spiders. The Fade was full of them."

"Spiders?," Dorian begins, "I could swear they were nugs," the mage says with a smile.

The mage starts casting several long, involved spells to make repairs to the amulet. Both The Inquisitor and Hawke quickly offer to assist in any way they can, but are of little help with the uncommon and complex magic the man is performing.

So they wait. Fenris and Hawke sit, backs propped against a stone bench nearby. As time passes, Hawke starts to drift in and out of sleep against the elf's shoulder. This has become not such a terrible place to wait, after such a long journey to find him.

Varric has pulled out a notebook and quill, and is quietly writing. Fenris shakes his head to himself. Material for a new book, no doubt.

The silence creeps in as they realize there is no longer a sound of magic being cast.

"There. I believe I'm finished." Dorian lets out a heavy breath. He holds the amulet in his palm, the leather cord draping unceremoniously beneath.

"Are you alright to continue, or should be rest?" The Inquisitor asks.

"No, I'm fine. I just need a moment. I'd rather not stay here any longer than we have to. A warm bed in Skyhold sounds too lovely right now to stop."

Dorian takes a few long breaths, and steadies himself. He reaches upward and stretches. "Alright. Is everyone ready?"

The group nod in unison.

They gather around, and Dorian begins casting the final spell. Just as before, waves of green magic begin flowing around them like a wind. It starts low, gentle, but begins to pick up speed and intensity as the spell builds.

Around them, dust and leaves begin fluttering in the torrent. The area is suddenly alive with magic.

Dorian pulls his hands together around the amulet, and focuses the spell. With a great flash, the light shifts and the wisps of green energy push outward.

The wind dies down, and they are once again left in the quiet.

"I don't suppose I should ask if it worked?" Fenris grunts.

"I think so. To be honest even if we're a few days off I'll be satisfied." Dorian looks exhausted.

Behind them, the eluvian shimmers. The Inquisitor walks toward it, and focuses. "Now, let me see if I remember what Morrigan showed me."

With a wave of her hands, the mirror comes alive. It reflects a cool blue aura onto Lavellan's face. She smiles for a moment, content. "After this, I intend to take the longest bath ever recorded."

She looks back to her companions. "Shall we?"

One by one, they step through.

\---

The small room off Skyhold's garden is lit by the bright glow of the eluvian. After they are all through, Lavellan turns and performs the same wave of her hands. Its blue glow quickly fades out and returns to a solemn shimmer.

"Handy," Hawke says contentedly.

The Inquisitor looks satisfied enough, and turns to walk out, pushing the door open with a quiet sigh.

They walk into the garden, and see now it is the middle of the night. Moonlight shines overhead, casting a calmness into the air. Above them, on the ramparts, two guards have stopped and are looking down at them.

The Inquisitor looks upward and gives them a long wave. One of them runs off into the nearby tower. "I suppose I should inform Cullen that we've returned," Lavellan says. "Lest we startle the entire watch with our sudden return. Leliana will want to send a raven to recall our soldiers."

Fenris looks hard at the night sky. "Inquisitor… before you retire, allow me to thank you once again. We could never have accomplished this without you."

"I should be thanking you as well. I don't have many opportunities to rescue one of our own." They reach the doors into the keep, and walk through. "But there will be plenty of time for celebration tomorrow."

A few people remain in the great hall at this hour, and look up curiously as the group enters.

"Varric, would you be willing to wake the healer to see about Hawke's ribs? She'll be grumpy but I think he ought to be checked, just in case."

Lavellan looks back to Varric when he doesn't immediately reply. He is looking rather concernedly at the two guards who have just entered the hall's main doors. "Does something feel off to you?" he says.

Two more appear at the far end of the hall and begin approaching, the light metallic sound of their armor audible as they approach.

As the soldiers converge on the group, they draw their weapons.

"State your intention!" one of them shouts. He looks to be their lieutenant.

Dorian holds his hands up in a peaceful gesture. "I'm sorry, what is this about? I admit we didn't return by the most common route but this hardly…"

"Who are you? And how did you all manage to get into the keep?"

He looks to the soldier incredulously. "Are you new?" Dorian asks.

"Stand down, please," Lavellan asks. "We returned through the eluvian. I know we were not expected back for another week." She is unsure of why the soldiers are acting so strangely.

The guards do not yield.

"Something about this is definitely not right," Hawke says.

The lieutenant looks unwavering at her. "Alright. Would you call for Commander Cullen for me?" Lavellan asks.

"I do not know who that is, nor do I know who you are. You will state your intention before I have you all placed in irons and taken to cells."

"Are you daft, man?" Dorian asks. "This is your Inquisitor."

The man almost seems to chuckle at the assertion. "The Inquisitor is no knife-ear."

They are both momentarily speechless.

"What is going on here?" A gruff voice from behind demands. The soldiers straighten and move aside quickly; A tall, bearded, human man is revealed to be approaching.

"My men spotted these five wandering the gardens. We confronted them but they refuse to identify themselves, Your Worship."

"Your Worship?" Varric says in a whisper.

The man steps closer, and looks to each of them. "Who are you?"

Dorian sighs heavily, clearly losing his patience. "I am Dorian Pavus, scion of House Pavus of Qarinus, and arcane magical advisor to the Inquisition. Now, who are you?"

The man looks slightly amused. "Lord Maxwell Trevelyan. Inquisitor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh. :-)
> 
> The two interactions between Flemeth and Hawke were some of my favorite scenes in DA2. I wanted to pull that in a bit here, and offer a reason as to why they so nicely found an escape route in the previous chapter. Flemeth has a habit of showing up where she's least expected and "helping" those she deems useful to her machinations.
> 
> I also wanted to touch a bit more on Hawke and Fenris' relationship before the events in Kirkwall went down. Small bits, because Fenris is a very private person. Honestly, writing Isabella was the hardest part of this chapter.
> 
> This chapter is a bit shorter than the others, but the next should make up for it. I just felt the end of this was a more appropriate break.


	8. Mirrors

"Oh, this is not good." Dorian's voice is a little shaky, as much from his exhaustion as from the group's current situation.

Fenris feels his marks hum lightly as adrenaline sets in. They are surrounded by six guards.

The seventh man… Trevelyan, is guardedly staring at them. He has looked as Lavellan stepped forward, perhaps recognizing that she is the leader.

"I beg your pardon," she starts peacefully. "It appears that there may be some confusion as to how… and when… exactly we've arrived. If you'll indulge me for just a moment… what is the date?"

The man looks to her again with amusement. "Ninth of Harvestmere, 9:42 Dragon."

"Dorian… what is going on?" She says. "Did we… change history, somehow?"

"We couldn't have. We didn't go back far enough."

"My turn to ask questions," Trevelyan says. "Who are you, exactly. How did you get into Skyhold? No more games."

Lavellan sighs, "I am… Inquisitor Lavellan. We came through the eluvian."

He stares at her unconvinced. "Inquisitor?"

She considers for a moment, and then looks to her hand. "Yes." As she holds it up the subtle green of the anchor becomes barely visible beneath her skin.

The soldiers are still, watching Lavellan closely as she extends her arm.

The man looks down, blinks, then extends his own hand. He bears a matching green mark. Their hands approach and the marks begin to glow stronger, pulsing their magic in subtle breaths.

"This is impossible," he says.

"Normally I would be inclined to agree with you," Lavellan looks the man in the eye. "This is as strange for us as it is for you. But I also need you to know that we do not intend any harm."

A pause, as he seems to consider whether her intent is genuine.

"Oh, oh no," Dorian can be heard from behind her.

"What is it?" Varric says.

"I think I might know what is going on."

Everyone turns to look at the mage.

Fenris forces himself to calm, somewhat, pushing down the hum in his marks before they might fully light.

Dorian's eyes are tired, and he is wiping his brow. He begins thinking back, trying to put the right words together.

"During our research, Alexius and I read a theory. It said that different historical outcomes, separate from the events of the known world, could exist simultaneously to our own. That every time we make a choice, the unchosen paths are followed by different versions of us." He appears to be going pale at the thought. "What if we somehow tapped into one of those worlds?"

"You think this might be a different Skyhold?" Varric asks.

"A different Skyhold, a different Frostbacks, a different Thedas. One where events played out in subtly different ways," he says. "It's the only explanation that could fit why the date is correct but you both bear the mark."

Lavellan looks to her counterpart. "The Breach… did you close it?"

"Yes, I did," the man says earnestly. "Eight months ago." He seems as curious of this theory as anyone.

"Eight months? That's two months quicker than we did. Using the orb, as well, I presume?"

Trevelyan's eyebrows rise at this. "Yes."

The man considers the group more closely now, looking each of them over. Fenris feels the man's gaze fall upon him, pausing for a moment, before turning to Hawke, and on back to Lavellan.

"Dorian, do you have any suggestions?" she asks.

"I'm afraid I'm at a loss, and I must admit neither the amulet or myself are in any condition to try again."

"Very well. Lord Trevelyan, if you would be so hospitable, our friend is injured, and we could use a bit to assess our situation."

His stare is chilling and sharp, like steel. After a time, his hand rises to scratch his beard. He heaves a heavy breath.

"Lieutenant, find our guests to some quarters. See that they are comfortable." He looks to Lavellan again, "I am very interested to hear more about your tale and how you came to find yourselves here."

Lavellan's shoulders relax somewhat. "Thank you," she says. "We are most grateful."

"But mind you, I will be posting an escort in the event you try anything."

"Of course," Lavellan says, knowing well and good she would consider the same.

\---

Fenris has never been in this part of the fortress, so he cannot gauge whether it appears the same. The hallways are dark, only the light of the occasional candle or torch accented by moonlight seeping in from slim windows. Two elven servants move swiftly down the hall past them as they walk.

They are shown to three adjacent rooms overlooking the courtyard. First, however, they convene to discuss the situation. The two guards that have escorted them remain outside near the door as it closes.

"Well… this is just creepy," Varric says, breaking the silence.

"Dorian, you're sure?" Lavellan asks.

"No, of course not. But it's the best theory I have. If I had to guess, some combination of the damaged amulet and our presence in the Crossroads may have affected the spell."

The mage moves to one of the beds and sits, his energy visibly waning.

Varric carries a look of frustration while trying to piece everything together. "So… what… instead of Lavellan grabbing the orb at the Conclave, this other guy did?"

"It would seem that way," she admits. "Looking back, it was pure chance that I was in that particular part of the temple at all when I found Corypheus performing his ritual. Someone else could've just as easily been there instead."

Hawke moves to take a chair nearby. Fenris notices him wince slightly as he sits. "Well, he didn't seem to recognize any of us. It's probably a fair bet that none of us are part of this Inquisition."

"Trevelyan. I know that name," Varric says. "If I remember right they are a noble house from Ostwick. The Merchant's Guild has had run-ins with them before. Very devout followers of the Chant. Bann Trevelyan is an adept negotiator and is on a first-name basis with most of the Chantry's officials in the Free Marches. This must be his son."

"Yes, I know of them as well," Dorian says. "My family is distantly related, if I'm not mistaken. Of course, the same could be said of most of the nobles houses of Tevinter."

"Let's hope he is willing to listen," Lavellan says.

"What now?" Fenris asks.

"We wait, until we get more answers and Dorian has had a chance to recover." Lavellan brushes a bit of dirt off of her arm that she's only just noticed. "At the very least we need to find out exactly what happened so we can attempt to get back."

"I suppose it could've been worse," Varric sighs. "We could've found ourselves in a Thedas where Corypheus won."

Lavellan's eyes gloss slightly as the though hits her. "Varric, if you don't mind sharing a room with Dorian, I'd imagine Hawke and Fenris would like to take the third. I suggest we regroup in the morning to try and sort this out."

\---

Hawke has removed most of his armor before he lies back onto the bed in their room. Fenris stands in the middle of the room, lost in thought.

"Are you alright, Fen?" The man says, tilting his head as he lays on his side.

"This is all very strange. For a moment I thought we might need to fight our way out of this place. We should be celebrating, but this is not home."

"It would seem that way. It's all confusing to me, as well." Hawke turns over onto his side. "In the mean time, would you sit with me?"

Fenris moves to sit beside him on the bed, Hawke's arm resting just beside his hips. He has sorely missed the familiar presence of the man.

He looks closely at Hawke's and he feels himself relax. "I am very glad you are alive. Before we found you, I… was not sure I would be able to continue on without you."

Hawke is quiet for a while. "I do regret not wanting you to come along. For all the pain you felt. I didn't mean to hurt you when I left."

"I know. I understood, but it did not make it easier. Our lives have been interwoven for so many years now." He is quiet for a moment, considering his words. He absentmindedly fidgets with the loose threads of the favor on his wrist. "That night, when you decided to leave. I was reminded that you are the only person I have ever truly trusted with my life. And my heart. I never imagined feeling so much for someone."

"If it helps at all, I knew that the night we met." Hawke smiles, placing is hand on the elf's shoulder blade. "Well… at least the first night we slept together."

Fenris heart jumps slightly at the memory. "Truly?" He still feels sorry for ever leaving Hawke's side that night.

"Maybe not in so many words, but after that night I found myself with a lot of time to think. I knew that I felt more for you than anyone I'd ever met, which is why I decided it was worth waiting. Three years later, when you opened up again, I didn't hesitate. Then everything in Kirkwall collapsed, and for a moment I thought I would really lose you. That's why I couldn't let you come with me. I couldn't bear it."

Fenris gently places his hand on Hawke's side. "We are together, now."

Hawke brings his hand to rest on the elf's, entangling their fingers in the way they had so many times before. "Wherever here is."

Fenris leans down, bringing their lips to meet. Hawke's are warm, and chapped, but it is such a welcome thing. To be in his embrace once more, to feel him pressed against his skin. It is the only thing Fenris desires in this moment.

"Maker, I missed you, Fen."

\---

After waking the next morning, Lavellan calmly watches out her room's window at the courtyard. Everything looks the same. The walls carry the same heraldry; The guards wear the same armor. She looks outward to the tavern and wonders if another Sera is sitting in her small room off the second floor.

New clothes have been provided for her, which fit well enough. The servants offered to launder hers, and presumably the others'.

A knock on the door. She moves from the window and opens it to find a young elven woman.

"Excuse me Serah, but the Inquisitor has requested your presence."

"Of course."

Lavellan steps out into the hall to find Varied and Dorian not far behind the girl. The mage is politely yawning with his back turned.

"Good morning, Inqu… uh…" Varric side-eyes to the servant. "Good morning."

"Good morning to you both. Are you feeling better?" She asks, looking to Dorian.

"Quite a bit, honestly. I'm not sure what they've stuffed these mattresses with, but it is better than mine back home. I will be speaking with someone about it as soon as we return." He smiles lightly as he fixes a stray strand of his mustache.

"Where are Hawke and Fenris?"

"They were taken to see a healer about Hawke's ribs," Varric offers.

"Oh, good."

"If you would please," the servant interrupts, "The Inquisitor is expecting you in the war room."

"By all means, lead the way, my dear," Dorian says, yawning slightly once again.

As the girl leads them through the twisting hallways, Lavellan begins to notice small differences in the keep she hadn't the night before. In particular, more guards are posted than what is normal for her Skyhold.

The main hall, usually host to at least a few visiting nobles and merchants, is nearly empty. Only a pair of Inquisition agents sit near the fire looking over reports. As they approach the far end, she sees the throne that sits at its head is larger and more elegant, with fine carved wooden detailing and emerald jeweled accents within the Inquisition emblem.

Down the hall toward the war room, she sees the same oaken desk, fully expecting Josephine to be seated behind it. No one is currently there.

The servant stops just short of the large wooden doors, and yields to the three. Lavellan thanks her kindly and they step inside.

The same stout table occupies the center of the room, a map spread across its surface. Around it stands Inquisitor Trevelyan, along with several familiar faces. Lavellan's face lights when she sees them: Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine.

It takes a moment for her to remember all three look to her without recognition.

Cassandra, in particular, stares in a way she had forgotten. The Seeker had shown the same harsh look the day they'd first met in the cells beneath Haven. When she'd believed that her charge was the one responsible for destroying the Conclave.

"Welcome," Trevelyan opens. "I'd like to introduce our guests. This is the woman who, by my great surprise, also bears the anchor, Lady Lavellan."

"Hello, everyone. I admit it is rather difficult for me to see no recognition on your faces. Where I come from… I am Inquisitor."

Everyone remains stone faced. Josephine wears her typical pleasant smile, the same worn as she mediates important matters with nobles. Leliana is, as always, impossible to read.

"These are two of my companions," Lavellan says. "Dorian Pavus, one of my magical advisors," he nods to the group kindly, "and Varric Tethras, our… well…"

"Resident storyteller and dashing rogue," he offers with a smile. It is directed toward the Seeker, but her face does not waver. He looks to Lavellan and whispers, "Really? Nothing?"

"And these are my advisors," Trevelyan adds. "Commander Pentaghast, the leader of our forces; Leliana, our spymaster, and Lady Montilyet, our diplomat." Each offers a short nod to the group. "Unfortunately, most of my inner circle has yet to return after seeing to a matter in Ferelden."

Lavellan takes a breath and smiles. "This must be as strange for you as it is for us."

Trevelyan motions with his hand. The posted guards step outside the room and close the large door behind them. "I would like to begin by learning a bit more about you. You said your theory was that you come from a duplicate of our world. Perhaps we should start by considering some of the differences between your Thedas and ours. It might help to better understand all of this."

"I suppose the largest difference," Dorian begins, "is that you were the one who happened upon Corypheus and the orb at the Conclave."

Trevelyan straightens a bit. "Yes. You mentioned the orb last night, as well. To be honest, that is what made me first consider your story could be true. We have kept the existence of the elven orb a closely guarded secret, with only those of my inner circle knowing of its existence. It was destroyed during the final confrontation with the blighted menace."

"The same happened to the orb in our world," Dorian admits.

"We are to believe that you know us?" Leliana attempts. "Rather, another us?"

"I… yes."

"Could you indulge my curiosity, then?" Leliana asks. "Perhaps you would know something of us that we could assume only one close to us would?"

Lavellan considers for a moment. "You are very fond of nugs. You have two named 'Schmooples, the Second' and 'Boulette'."

"I suppose that counts, although I admit I would have little trouble discovering such a fact from limited investigation."

"Alright," She thinks for a bit longer. The others look to her patiently. "The spirit we met in the Fade. The one who resembled Divine Justinia… She relayed a message, and you were unsure of what she could have meant, until we travelled together to Valence. We discovered its true meaning, that she felt she had taken advantage of your place at her side and was releasing you from your burden."

Leliana's eyes grow slightly wider, now, before quickly returning to normal; She smiles slightly. "Well, that is far more impressive. Perhaps there is truth to your story, after all."

"I understand it is a difficult idea to consider. But I know you all. The three of you are part of _my_ inner circle as well. Although Cassandra is not the commander of our forces."

The Seeker tilts her head slightly and blinks. "Really? Who is, then?"

"Cullen Rutherford, a former Templar."

Leliana appears to think for a moment. "I know that name. He was in Kirkwall before the uprising."

"Yes, he was. After the mage rebellion began in Kirkwall," Lavellan continues, "our Cassandra recruited Cullen to join the Inquisition."

"Ah, perhaps that is another difference," Leliana says. "The mage rebellion here began in Starkhaven, not Kirkwall. The Qunari ensured that."

"The Qunari?" She asks.

"Several years ago there was a group of Qunari who'd been shipwrecked in Kirkwall. They were given refuge, but over the years they opted to remain rather than return to Par Vollen. What happened is not fully understood, but eventually something sparked the Qunari refugees; They rose up in revolt and rapidly claimed the city's noble district."

"The same uprising happened for us," Varric explains. "They were after a lost Qunari relic, and refused to leave until they had reclaimed it. Hawke defeated their leader and saved the city."

"Hawke? You speak of Garret Hawke?" Cassandra asks. "I've heard stories of him from refugees of Kirkwall. He did indeed face the Qunari, but he and his companions were killed in the ensuing battle, along with most of the city's guards and templars. Presumably your templar Cullen was there, as well."

Varric is stunned. "You mean, Kirkwall?"

"It was captured by the Qunari," Leliana says solemnly. "After they took the city, they used it to establish a foothold in the Free Marches. From what little information we have of the uprising, any citizens who were not able to flee were either killed in the chaos or converted to the Qun. From there, they pushed northwest toward Starkhaven. With that city's forces in disarray as the result of a leadership dispute, they were unprepared for any attack. They were able to keep the Qunari at bay while the nobles sent a plea for the Chantry to declare a new Exalted March against the invasion."

A pained look crosses the Seeker's face. "Most Holy did not believe the Chantry was in any condition to march in the wake of civil war in Orlais, and Ferelden still recovering from a blight. Orlais and Nevarra both sent soldiers, but it was not enough to hold back the Qunari."

Leliana continues, "The mages in the Starkhaven circle rebelled when it was decided the Chantry had left them all for dead. The city's templars then declared the Right of Annulment, but with the city fighting against itself, the Qunari were able to conquer it swiftly. Not long thereafter, as word spread, Circles across Thedas heard of the events in Starkhaven and rose up in rebellion."

"For what little it is worth," Cassandra resumes, "the Qunari then turned all of their attention to Tevinter. Nevarra and Antiva have since both nervously sat in waiting. Most Holy called for the Conclave in an attempt to bring some peace between the rebelling mages and the Chantry. She had hoped for solidarity in the face of a rapidly growing threat from the Qunari should they succeed in defeating Tevinter."

"From there… I suspect events play out similarly on your side," Trevelyan offers. "Corypheus destroyed the Conclave, the Inquisition was declared to calm the chaos, and we eventually found ourselves here."

Lavellan slowly takes in these developments. "What of the rebel mages? Did they take refuge in Redcliffe as they did with us?"

"Some did, yes. They were welcomed for a time. A great majority, however, found themselves coerced or captured by the Venatori. They were then used against us in the siege of Haven. The remnants of the Templar Order had thankfully joined with us in our stand, as they still do now. After that, most of our focus was on defeating Corypheus and his lieutenants. We thwarted his efforts to destabilize Orlais and his plan to raise a demon army."

"We did the same," Lavellan confirms. "At least that part is the same."

"Messere Tethras," Josephine asks, "are you alright?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, Ruffles. Er… Lady Montilyet," the dwarf immediately realizes his mistake and corrects himself. "Sorry. That's a long story." She looks to him curiously. Leliana can be seen to smile widely to herself beneath her cowl. "Hearing about Kirkwall… I wasn't expecting it."

"We now sit in a stalemate with the Qunari," Trevelyan places his hands on the table above the map, pointing to the locations marked as fronts. "They are actively working to defeat Tevinter, but have yet to advance further south. They have claimed half of the Free Marches, from Starkhaven to just west of Ostwick. The other nations are reluctant to assist for the same reason they always have: They don't want the Qunari to storm their borders."

Leliana looks to the map. "Perhaps realizing their worsening situation, Tevinter eventually reached out to us in aid while we were dealing with Corypheus."

"Really?" Dorian makes a dissatisfied face. "My Tevinter was perfectly content watching from afar. Oh, they denounced the Venatori, but I believe they did not fully consider the threat the cult posed. They would rather site back and see how the situation could benefit them. It is why I joined the Inquisition."

"With the threat of Qunari invasion from two directions, they have been far more cooperative and supportive of our efforts," Trevelyan states.

"What of Wycome?" asks Lavellan. "I am curious if you have any news of Dalish clans in that area."

Trevelyan considers. "The Dalish clans of the Free Marches have been largely quiet for many years. Several were driven away by the Qunari advance, and some have not been seen since. I do not know of any clans present near Wycome."

"I see," Lavellan says.

"Moving more to the situation at hand, perhaps you could describe how you were able to arrive here," Trevelyan asks.

"Yes… well… it was rather by accident, as we said," Dorian explains. "We were on a mission to rescue Hawke. I assume you dealt with the Nightmare demon during your battle with the Wardens?"

"I did. It is a memory I would rather forget. I was forced to leave one of the Wardens behind, a man by the name of Stroud. A good man."

Lavellan casts an empathetic air. "I was faced with a similar decision. However, we encountered a way to re-enter the Fade and locate Hawke, whom I'd left behind."

"By what means were you able to return to the Fade?" Leliana looks greatly curious. Dorian quickly explains the use of the modified elven artifact and the process of Lavellan reopening the rift with the anchor.

"Astounding," Cassandra states. "You thought doing this was not reckless? How could you justify the potential for more demons to pour through?"

Lavellan looks to her understandingly. "It was a risk, yes. We discussed the possible repercussions and decided it was worth the attempt. We succeeded, and by sheer chance escaped through an eluvian into the Crossroads. We were attempting to navigate to our Skyhold, but ended up here."

"I see," the man considers her answer. "Morrigan did say the eluvians led to many places. She theorized one could lead into the Fade, given enough power. It is intriguing, however, how one could send you here."

"I admit we do not fully understand it ourselves," Lavellan says.

Dorian's mouth opens briefly, then closes, thinking better.

"Now that Dorian has recovered," she says, "we were hoping to begin investigating how to return. With a bit of study, perhaps we could determine more."

"Of course. I believe we have discussed enough for the time being. The guards will see that you are allowed into the library, for any tomes or tools you may require. For now though, if you will excuse us I have other matters to discuss with my advisors."

He offers a directive gesture, and Josephine moves to lead them out, walking them to the door.

"A moment, Lady Lavellan," she says just outside the room. "The Inquisitor is hosting a party this evening for a member of the Orlesian Council of Heralds. He would like to invite the three of you and your companions to join. The rest of His Grace's inner circle is expected to return by then, and perhaps one or two of them may be of assistance in your research."

"Thank you," Lavellan says warmly. "We would welcome the assistance and are honored by your continued hospitality."

\---

"Please lie here, Serah." The healer directs Hawke to a low table on the far side of the room. Fenris stands near the table's head, attempting to remain out of the way.

As Hawke lies back, his breastplate removed, the woman spreads her hand a few inches over his abdomen. From it a subtle white glow appears. She moves her hand slowly from chest to groin, assessing the damage.

"You indeed have two cracked ribs," she says, eyes closed and concentrating, "as well as some slight tearing of the fascia near your stomach. I should be able to mend it shortly."

Hawke takes long, careful breaths as the woman begins her work.

"I really regret never really learning a healing spell." He speaks softly, to not disturb the process. "One would be welcome in times like these."

"The abomination was quite adept at healing," Fenris says coldly. "That removed most of the need for you to do so."

"Bethany knew a bit." His eyes look upward in thought. "Once, when the twins were younger, she healed a large scrape along Carver's leg after he'd fallen from a tree. Father was so proud of her. She learned spells so easily. A natural talent, Father had always said."

Fenris knows well how hard it is for Hawke to speak of his sister, even of pleasant memories from their time as children. He places his hand on the mage's shoulder in an attempt at comfort.

Hawke smiles softly while still looking up at the ceiling.

In that moment Fenris suddenly realizes Hawke had not yet spoken of Carver. "Hawke, before Adament, were you able to locate your brother?"

"Yes. After I reached Ferelden, I received word that Carver was with his unit in the Vimmarks. They were scouting Deep Roads entrances in the off chance any had become active with the sudden appearance of red lyrium. They were far enough North that Corypheus's false calling didn't reach them."

"That is good to hear." Fenris, admittedly, had never really gotten along with Carver, but he'd assumed the man had matured during his time with the Wardens.

"Maker… everyone back home thinks I'm dead, don't they?"

For a moment, Fenris is unsure of how to respond. He decides to do so honestly. "Yes. Varric mentioned he sent letters to Aveline and Merrill. He wasn't sure if Isabella's had yet reached her."

"Aveline might well and truly kill me when she finds out I'm alive." Hawke laughs slightly, causing the healer to lose her focus. She gives an annoyed glare. "Sorry," Hawke says with a smile as she resumes her work.

"She will be overjoyed to see you. You are family to her," Fenris says.

Hawke is quiet again, but not uncomfortably so.

A few moments later, the healer finishes her task. "That is all I can do, Serah. You may be sore for a few more days, but the bulk of it is faring well."

"Thank you," Hawke says, slowly sitting up. He tests the feeling by carefully twisting his torso back and forth. "Ah, I can breathe again without the feeling of glass embedded in my stomach."

The woman politely sees the two out, and they begin walking through the courtyard.

The weather is favorable, with the sun bright overhead and the air crisply cold. Two soldiers are sparring in the yard, as three others watch nearby; Merchants are unloading goods from a wagon near the gates; Several well-dressed nobles are speaking with an Inquisition agent outside of the tavern.

The soft grass beneath Fenris' boots feels odd, and he absentmindedly watches his feet as he steps.

"You bought boots, I see," Hawke says looking over.

"Yes. I received recommendation that a journey to Skyhold would be cold."

"Ferelden winters were always bitter, even in Lothering. Snow and harsh wind through most of it."

"I hadn't truly experienced snow until now."

"I think I remember you saying that once. I suppose you wouldn't have. Tevinter probably isn't very cold."

Fenris thinks back, remembering his life before. "Only the mountain regions had regular snow, and I was never near enough to see the snow up close. And Seheron is… always hot, even during the winter months. The snow was interesting the first time I was able to touch it."

"I missed it, after we fled to Kirkwall. It never quite felt like Wintersend without a large snowfall."

"I… passed through Kirkwall on my way South," Fenris offers tepidly.

"Oh. How did it seem?" Hawke is staring off above the ramparts.

"The city looks to be faring well. I learned that there had been an attempt by Starkhaven to seize control, but it had been held back."

"I wondered if Sebastian would follow through with that threat. Maker, Aveline has enough trouble to deal with as it is."

"It was strange, being back there. It was as if I was experiencing it through someone else's dream. I did not realize until recently that I've often found my thoughts drawn to it."

"Maybe once we figure this all out, we might go back some day."

"You would wish to return?" Fenris asks.

"Kirkwall was my home for ten years; I do miss it. Not the dirt so much, or the bandits, or the constant calls for my help. I miss people, mostly. Aveline, Merrill… Isabella. Our nights in the Hanged Man are some of my best memories."

"It would not be the same as before."

"I know," Hawke says softly. "But we could try and make it ours again, if you wanted." He smiles as he looks into Fenris' eyes. "Or, I could join you somewhere else. Anywhere, really. With you, that's my only real criteria."

Fenris feels his heart pulse. "I would like that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… a mirror of Thedas?
> 
> My intention with this slightly darker Thedas is not for it to be an evil mirror universe. Everyone here is fundamentally the same person as they are in the group's normal Thedas (or, at least, they've started out as the same people). Events… just played out differently, causing a few people to change due to the circumstances (Cassandra being the most obvious here.)
> 
> It also allows me to pair Trevelyan as a mirror to Lavellan… I love the contrasting backstories of the human and elven Inquisitors, and it should make for some interesting storytelling.
> 
> And finally Hawke and Fenris get a moment alone, truly alone, to be together. They might have a lot of struggle ahead of them, though.


	9. Guests

"I'm… dead?" Hawke's eyes are wide as he processes the news.

"Technically all three of us are," Varric says, referring to himself and Fenris as well. "The other us, that is."

They have regrouped in the other Skyhold's tavern. The drinks, the music, even the bartender feel the same.

Fenris is looking off at a nondescript part of the wall, listening quietly. "I've thought before of what might've come to pass had the Qunari successfully taken Kirkwall. I've heard enough tales of how the Qun handles conquered foes to know it would not be a pleasant transition."

"Maker… this is all my fault," Hawke says staring into his drink.

"The other you, Hawke," Varric reinforces. "_You_ beat the Arishok, remember?"

"Yes, but _here_ the Qunari have taken the Free Marches and are threatening war on the borders of all of Thedas. This could've happened back home. I would've lost you both. Why did the other me fail?"

"I don't know if we'll ever know that," Varric says. "I spoke with Red a bit more, and as far as I can gather things played out more or less as they did for us. There's accounts that we made names for ourselves with the same people. You and I made the same expedition into the Deep Roads; We still faced the Qunari. Just… for whatever reason, we lost."

Hawke is still staring at the cup in his hands, trying to steel himself.

Lavellan looks to him comfortingly. "There are any number of choices we make each day that have the potential to undo us, Hawke. You mustn't dwell on it. Take comfort in the knowledge that _you_ did not falter that day."

"For what little it's worth, I have no idea where I am in this world," Dorian says dryly. "Hopefully fighting for sanity in Tevinter. Not dead in a ditch after being ambushed by the Beresaad. Maker, and Bull and I would never have…"

His voice trails off.

They are all quiet for a long moment.

"What if we are unable to return?" Fenris asks.

Dorian makes a sour face. "I'd rather not think of that, if it's all the same. The spell managed to bring us here, as long as I can figure out _how_, it should be able to send us back."

An annoyed grunt escapes from Fenris' mouth.

Hawke looks to Fenris. "Is everything alright?"

"I am… uneasy in this place," he replies.

"Considering the conditions you originally came to Skyhold, I don't doubt you would dislike it here," Dorian says.

"It is not that. This place feels… different. Even from your Skyhold."

Dorian looks to him curiously. "There's several familiar faces missing, I suppose."

"I feel it, too," Lavellan says. "Something is off, not considering the change in leadership. I can't quite put my finger on it." She thinks, running her fingers over her sleeve. "There are far more guard patrols, and fewer travelers. I noticed it this morning on our way to the war room."

"Speaking of which, Inquisitor," Dorian starts, "I noticed you neglected to detail to Trevelyan the exact nature of how we arrived."

"Yes. I… decided that it is best to keep the specific method of our arrival between us, for now. He mentioned that events played out differently in Redcliffe here. I would rather not risk exposing the amulet's existence to this world just yet."

"In case someone here has ulterior motives?" Fenris asks.  
  
"Possibly. I'd just rather be careful," she says. "There is more, though. Little things. This Cassandra feels colder, more distant."

"It could be the effect of impending invasion weighing on everyone," Hawke says. "Ferelden was a far different place when the darkspawn horde was spreading."

"I suppose so," she says quietly.

"I know why," Varric states grimly. "This Seeker has never read one of my books."

A slight smile crosses Lavellan's lips. Fenris notices her shoulders relax a bit, and she sighs.

"I don't know how I would be handling the situation if the Qunari had invaded back home," she says. "Thankfully it has not come to that, and I have you all to keep me grounded."

She rests her face in her hands and exhales.

"Are you alright, Sparkler?" Varric asks.

Dorian's thoughts are elsewhere. While the others have been talking, he has pulled out a charm from his pouch. A small fragment laced onto a string. Fenris cannot tell what it might be made of, but man is carefully playing with it in his hands.

"Hmm? Oh, yes." Dorian quickly pockets the necklace and looks up to the group. "I'm fine. Thank you. As much as I enjoy these moments, though, I think it is time I began my research. Inquisitor, would you care to join me?"

"Yes, gladly," she says, getting up.

"We'll stick around here, in case you need our expertise," Varric remarks with a smirk.

\---

Hours pass. The trio plays several hands of cards and drinks a few more rounds as the afternoon slips by.

On Hawke's interest, Fenris details more of his journey to Skyhold: Passing through Kirkwall, the encounter with bandits near Jader, and the trip through the Frostbacks.

Hawke and Varric quickly settle into their well-established rapport, Fenris notes, while the latter updates Hawke on more events since Adamant.

"So, anyway, that's why I think I may return to Kirkwall when we get back. I've imposed on the Inquisitor enough already."

"If anyone could help in Kirkwall, it's you," Hawke says.

"Oh, I don't know. What could I really hope to accomplish? Pay the back rent I owe the Hanged Man from the months I've been away?"

"Lowtown could use someone like you, as a leader in the community. Someone to help them gain traction with the nobles."

"Maybe. All I know is that I've been greatly missing it. Skyhold is great, but there's not much left to tell in this story."

"You've already started penning a new book, haven't you?" Hawke asks with a grin.

"I've taken some notes. What? I had some downtime before this little quest of ours."

As the two speak, Fenris decides waiting here is too distracting.

He excuses himself from the other two, Hawke looking to him questioningly for a moment, before understanding. The elf has never been one to remain in public spaces for too long. He gives Fenris a caring nod, and resumes playing cards and bantering with Varric.

\---

Dorian's eyes feel as though they have turned to stone, stiffly attempting to focus on the amulet in front of him. He releases the spell he's been using, letting the thing gently come to rest back on the table.

This library hosts a similar set of volumes to the one he's used to, but his attempts to determine more information on their predicament have largely been up to his own guess and investigation.

Lavellan sits beside him, quietly reading another tome.

He looks out the window as the sun dips lower on the horizon. The evening is setting in, and soon dusk will fall. He feels his stomach rumble.

She looks up to him at this with a small smile. "It sounds like you're reaching your limit."

"Oh, believe me. While I was studying at the Circle in Minrathous, I could spend all night in study with little to eat and be ready the next afternoon for a lecture without any hint of fatigue."

"Any more luck with the amulet?"

"Only little hints. The enchantments are still in place, and the magic does not appear directly affected. This lends to my theory that our presence in the Crossroads contributed to the effect. The ambient magic there appears to be special."

"Well, the entire realm was crafted by the ancient elves. It could be that there is something about it that modified the spell."

"Indeed. It's now just a matter of figuring out how and whether we can account for it to reverse the process."

His stomach rumbles again. Lavellan attempts to repress a chuckle.

"I do admit, it has been many years since I was so carefree a student. My focus is beginning to wane and I would welcome a bit to eat right about now."

"Perhaps we should get ready for this evening," she says.  
  
Dorian stands, stretching his back and sighing. "Well, then, Inquisitor. Would you be so kind as to join me for an evening of fine foods and company?" He offers out his arm.

Lavellan gets up and bows over-dramatically. "Why I would be ever so honored, Dorian." She takes his arm and the two walk out of the library and up the stairway toward their rooms.

\---

Fenris finds himself once again near the sparring grounds, staring out into the courtyard.

The guards pay him little attention, likely due to his appearance. In the simple clothes he'd been provided he must appear to be a simple elven servant. He finds a spot just past the top of the stairs on the wall where he can observe in relative quiet.

A large caravan of carts has recently arrived, and the relative chaos of the merchants and incoming supplies has the workers busy.

One cart, though, is unlike the others and particularly interesting. It is covered, helmed by two Inquisition soldiers, and its contents appears to have already been unloaded some time before.

Could it be just more supplies? Why the guards driving, then?

Three other plain-clothed men emerge soon after from what, Fenris believes, is a door to the underground levels of the keep. Something about them piques his interest.

They meet up with the driver of the cart, exchange some words he cannot hear, and then move off toward the tavern. As they near, out of earshot of the guards, he can only barely make out their dialogue. Their bravado… is familiar.

"He better be satisfied with this, then. I intend to get paid in full this time," one of them says.

Another laughs, "As much trouble as they went through to bring it down, to think it would be out the whole trip on just a bit of the good powder."

"That shit'll bring down a giant if you get the mix right," the first says.

The three move out of earshot and past the tavern toward the keep's gates.

Fenris stands there with a knot in the pit of his stomach. They spoke as if they'd captured a large animal, but why bring it into the keep? It doesn't feel quite right.

Out in the courtyard, a loud yell is heard as a horse is spooked and rears loose from its handler. It bucks at the man before running off toward the gate. The guards are distracted attempting to pull people out of its path.

Against his better judgement, he moves quickly down the stairs and quietly slips the rest of the way around the wall to the door from which the men emerged. It is unguarded. With the guards' attention fully on attempts to corral the horse, he tries it.

The door opens with no particular resistance. Immediately beyond is a long staircase, leading down a way before arcing off to the right. A torch lights the next landing.

Fenris briefly looks back to the tavern, where Hawke and Varric likely still sit. For a moment he considers informing them, but decides that another opportunity to investigate may not present itself. He is through the door promptly, closing it quietly behind him.

\---

Lavellan and Dorian arrive to the great hall to find it, with apparently great effort, transformed. It is decorated in white and gold trim banners, bright colored floral displays, and tables of delicate food and drink.

"Good evening," Josephine greets them as they enter.

"Good evening, Lady Montilyet," Lavellan says pleasantly.

She looks to them curiously, "Will your other companions be joining us?" she asks.

"Soon," Lavellan offers. "I believe they may have lost track of time playing cards."

"Ah, wonderful. Inquisitor Trevelyan and his advisors are speaking with his guests at the moment, so please enjoy the hors d'oerves."

"Most definitely," Dorian says, walking towards a servant and daintily taking a small pastry from the tray. Lavellan join him as Josephine walks off to greet another guest.

Dorian takes a bite and rolls his eyes. "Well, it is disappointing to see this Inquisition's obsession with Orlesian cheeses rivals our own."

Lavellan does not appear amused, as she looks off into the crowd.

"I wonder who Trevelyan considers his closes confidants," Dorian says. "Your inner circle has proven to be a highly diverse set of individuals. Could this man perhaps keep a similar set of minds?"

"So far I haven't seen anyone else that I've recognized, so it's fair to guess not many of them intersect," she says lightly. "Thinking back, most of you arrived with some particular grandeur. Bull sent Krem to declare the Chargers' availability. Vivienne invited us to a ball. Sera lured me into a back alley."

Dorian smiles. "Ah, secret conversations and combat in the alleys of Val Royeaux. That's almost romantic. I notice you failed to mention my clandestine entrance in Redcliffe."

"Luring me into a Chantry full of demons. Not nearly as romantic," Lavellan grins.

Dorian is quiet for a moment. "I noticed _he's_ not here, either."

She does not meet his eyes, still looking out into the crowd, scanning faces. "I didn't expect him to be. We don't know if he was even involved with the Inquisition here."

"I suppose you could ask."

"This world's Solas would likely have few answers to offer me. Unless Inquisitor Trevelyan found himself similarly enamored with his wiles."

"He'll turn up, on our side. Eventually."

Lavellan's lips make a small, reassuring smile.

"Pardon me," comes a smooth voice from behind the pair.

They turn and are greeted by a handsome man in polished Templar armor.

"Am I correct in my assumption that you are the Lady Lavellan, and Serah Pavus? The Inquisitor informed those of us close to him of your presence in Skyhold, and I wanted to introduce myself. I am Delrin Barris of the Templar Order."

"Oh, Ser Barris," Lavellan says. "It is an honor."

Barris extends his arm, taking Lavellan's hand gently and greeting her graciously.

"Your timing is impeccable," Dorian jests. "We were just theorizing who your indelible Inquisitor might keep in his inner circle."

"The Inquisitor's circle is small. Only a few of us still regularly travel with him outside of the keep. Myself, Scout-Lieutenant Harding, Warden Blackwall, and even Madame de Fer, before she returned to Val Royaux for her coronation. And I believe you've already met Seeker Pentaghast, who has often travelled with His Worship when her duties did not require her here."

"I'm sorry… back up," Dorian blinks widely. "Did you say Vivienne's coronation?"

Ser Barris' demeanor shifts slightly to trepidation. "Yes. As Divine Victoria. The ceremony took place last month."

"Well… there's an option we never considered," Dorian says to Lavellan as he takes another bite of pastry.

She seems greatly curious, now. "The Chantry was accepting of electing a mage to the position?"

"I admit the announcement was met with great unrest from many in the Chantry," he explains. "However, the Inquisitor's influence greatly helped convince the Grand Clerics. Her Holiness was fervent in her first reforms, including the restoration of the Circles and establishment of a new Templar Order. I believe Seeker Pentaghast remains unconvinced, but she has respected the Inquisitor's intent."

"Tell us more of you, though, Ser Barris," Lavellan asks. "How has the situation been for the remaining Templars in the wake of the breach's closure?"

"Those of us who remained with the Inquisition have been busy providing aid to those affected, my lady. I am originally from Ferelden, and it has been an honor to help so many in need in my homeland."

"That is good to hear," Lavellan says.

"But what of yourselves? The Inquisitor mentioned you had others with you, and one was injured. Are they faring well?"

"Yes. Hawke is faring much better thanks to your healer. They should all be joining us this evening. I wonder what could be keeping them?"

\---

Hawke has returned to their room, having lost the little coin he had on his person to Varric in their last game of cards.

He finds his armor and clothes, freshly cleaned and placed neatly on the bedside. His staff stands in the corner next to Fenris' greatsword.

He sits on the bed and casually traces the stitches along Fenris' leathers, neatly placed alongside. The edges are worn where they had taken the worst of the elf's travels.

Hawke begins changing, and his imagination begins to wander. He thinks of what might come when they are able to return, in hopeful peace in a calmer Thedas. A dream where he and Fenris are finally able to build a life together.

The thought is interrupted not long after by Varric at the door.

"Tired of the elf, already?" He jokes, glancing at the otherwise empty room.

"Just the opposite," Hawke says as he rises.

"It seems the other Inquisitor is expecting us all at a party soon." Varric has also changed back into his fine embroidered coat, its gold accents now clean and crisp. "Probably best to make a good first impression. You know how nobles are."

Hawke smirks, "When have I ever failed to do that?"

"Not a once since we've met. Like Chateau Haine? You would've made less of an entrance if you'd rode in on that wyvern."

Hawke smiles. "Any news from our Inquistor?"

"I haven't heard anything, yet." Varric looks to Fenris' clothes on the bedside. "Is he still wandering somewhere?"

"It would seem so. He's never much cared for parties and nobles." Hawke says. He finishes lacing the ties on the front of his tunic and belts his breastplate in place. "I should go and see where he's gone. Inform the others we might be fashionably late."

"Don't you know that in any good murder mystery, the guest who arrives late is the one who usually turns up dead?"

"I've read that one. The steward did it," he can be heard yelling back, his voice echoing down the hall. "Check my food for poison!"

\---

The chilled air of the courtyard becomes a dead calm cold as Fenris rounds the last landing and reaches the bottom of the stairway.

He stands in a small square junction. There are doors leading off in three directions. The center door is ajar, flanked on either side by lit torches.

He steps over to it, and silently peeks through the crack into the next room. He can see a section of the right wall beyond. It is lined with cells. At least three on that wall, he determines. From within he can hear a muffled rushing sound.

He can also hear footsteps within. Slow and paced. A jailer? All he needs is a peek at what they might be guarding. Some indication that his imagination is merely running wild and his fears are unfounded.

He quietly slips to another of the nearby doors. The one on the right leads into a small storage room, dark and filled with crates. Its door latches closed on this side only.

If he were able to lure the guard away, this could do the trick.

While he was on the run years before, he would often require stealth and patience to draw slavers away and elude capture. It was, however, never something at which he was particularly skillful. He suddenly wishes he'd paid closer attention to Isabella's techniques when she would silently slip through rooms ahead of them and sow seeds of confusion.

Inside the dark storage room, he surveys the crates. Most are small, light, and easily moved. Checking again that no-one has followed, he quickly and quietly sets to strew a few of them into the middle of the room.

Once finished, he picks up one of the wooden lids and carries it with him. Slipping behind the door and out of sight, he takes a deep breath, then throws it into the center of the room.

It bounces off a crate with a great crash, landing just in front of the pile with two more loud thuds.

He presses between the open door and the stone wall, holding his breath. For a moment, he hears no sound except his heart lightly beating in his ears.

Then, the loud footsteps of boots on the stone floor. He hears the other door creek as it is opened fully, and the slight metallic clack of armor moving toward him.

He feels the presence of someone on the other side of the door. The figure moves into view, attention on the mess in the center of the room. They are just enough into the room for Fenris to see the guard's blade at his side, a hand on its hilt.

The guard passes only a step beyond the door when the man senses Fenris behind. A gruff yell as he spots his target in his periphery. A spin on his heel, but Fenris is faster, pushing him forward to slightly offset his balance. It is enough to slip past without taking a blow from the guard's elbow.

He grabs the door as he moves, pulling it behind him, but the guard manages to grab the other side before he can fully yank it closed. For several heartbeats they are locked in a battle of strength. Fenris' boots begin to lose footing on the stone floor.

He decides to risk it. His marks flare under his skin in a bright flash as he pushes outward with a burst. It is enough to force the door and the guard away, knocking him onto his back in a defensive fall. Before he has enough time to stand, Fenris grabs the door once again and pulls it shut, latching it securely.

A muffled yell can be heard on the other side as the guard yells and rattles the latch, "Elf, open this door immediately or Maker help me I will see you put to the gallows."

So much for being discrete. The guard's voice trails off as Fenris moves back toward the center door.

\---

After a short time, Lavellan sees Inquisitor Trevelyan meet her eyes and move from his other guests toward them. Ser Barris departs kindly.

He approaches with a confident walk, nodding to several other guests as he moves. "Good evening," he says as he meets them.

"Greetings, Inquisitor," Lavellan replies. "Thank you for your invitation."

"Indeed. I am very interested to hear any thoughts you might have on how our social graces compare to your own Inquisition's," he says with a slight curl of his lips. "Have you had made any progress in your research?"

"A small amount, yes. Not enough to be able to yet return, but we have begun to understand what might have happened."

"I have hope that we will make some additional headway tomorrow," Dorian says.

Trevelyan motions to Dorian. "Oh, Ser Pavus. I believe you might enjoy speaking with my magical advisor. Perhaps it would help to have a fresh perspective."

"I would welcome any assistance, but this field of study is rather specialized and is not greatly researched in Southern circles."

"Fortunate, then, that he is not from the South. After he returned this afternoon, I briefed him on the matter and he was quite intrigued." Trevelyan looks behind them, searching those present.

"So it is the smug elf, after all," Dorian thinks to himself.

"The two of you also have a great deal in common. Ah, here he is now."

Dorian turns toward the door, to where Trevelyan gestures to get a man's attention.

For the briefest moment he thinks it is Alexius, as the man is dressed in the fine regalia of a Tevinter magister. A stark contrast to the fine gowns and masks of the visiting Orlesian nobles. It is, however, not his mentor.

Dorian recognizes his face as soon as the man joins them. A chill runs through his veins. More than a decade older, and with graying hair and beard, but there is no doubt.

"Serah Pavus, may I introduce my advisor on arcane matters, Magister Danarius of Minrathous."

The man looks him over with a stone glance.

"Ah, Dorian Pavus. It has been a long time." He extends his hand to Dorian, who, after considering the alternative, returns the greeting. "I know the mother and father of your counterpart."

"Yes, so you do," Dorian says, regaining his step. "A pleasure to meet you here." He motions to his companion, "And this is Inquisitor Lavellan."

Danarius looks to her and nods with minuscule effort. "How intriguing it is to meet a member of the Dalish."

Lavellan does not flinch. "It is an honor as well to meet a magister of the Imperium. One, at least, that has not tried to kill me."

Dorian hears the word "yet" fall from his imagination in the silence that follows. He takes the opportunity to steer the conversation away from the awkward air forming between them. "It is curious to find you so far from the Magisterium."

"Indeed. After the invasion of the South by the Qunari, the Magisterium felt it necessary to ensure the Imperium could be integral to the Inquisition's efforts. Thanks in great part to the Inquisitor's offer of alliance, of course. As a leading mind on arcane matters, I was a natural choice as ambassador, and offered to assist in research."

Trevelyan gives a steely smile. "The Magister has provided us with magical resources and knowledge that had helped us not only in our efforts with Corypheus, but also now with the Qunari threat."

"Which is why I am most interested to hear more, however, of your arrival," Danarius says. "Such an accident could potentially shed light on new avenues of magical theory."

"We would be happy to discuss it in length," Dorian attempts to find the best words to drive off any need to explain the specifics here. "Perhaps we could meet tomorrow and show you what we've learned?"

"Hmm, I am quite busy these days but I could possibly find time for you tomorrow afternoon."

"Perfect. I promise it will be most intriguing," Dorian says.

"If you'll excuse us, it appears that our other companions are late," Lavellan offers politely. "Perhaps we should attempt to find them, right Dorian?"

"Yes. Ever so unlike them. Please excuse us, Magister, Inquisitor."

"Hmm, of course," Trevelyan says with a nod.

Danarius offers no other words, instead looking back toward one of the servants. He motions for them, and they quickly deliver a tray of fine foods for his partaking.

Dorian and Lavellan move off toward the side passage.

"Was that who I think it was?" Lavellan asks when they are well enough out of earshot.

Dorian feels the blood returning to his face. "Yes. It most definitely was. Fenris' former master."

"How is he _here_."

"It would seem he's taken a similar role to mine. An ambassador for Tevinter acting as a liaison to the Inquisition. Except his role appears to be very much embraced by the Imperium. There's no other explanation why they would send one of the most prominent members of the Magisterium."

"No, I mean how is he _alive_. I thought Fenris… oh. Oh, no."

Lavellan suddenly recalls the events detailed of Kirkwall in this world.

"Hawke fell, and so did his companions," she says into the air. "Fenris never faced his master."

"If Danarius were to discover _our_ Fenris was here…" Dorian trails off.

"We have to find him."

\---

No other guards have followed, so Fenris feels confident that the one in the storage room was the only one present.

The center door is now fully open, revealing the room beyond. Inside, the walls on either side are lined with cells. On the far side is another closed door, from where the sound of the rushing water can now be more clearly heard.

Fenris steps inside, surveying the cells one by one. The first few are empty, with only a small bedroll and wooden bucket in each.

As he reaches the far end and looks closer, he sees that one contains a large silhouette, hunched over in the corner of the cell.

Coming up to the bars, he can make out the shape better in the flickering torchlight. A bulky frame slumped against the wall, unconscious, head propped against the stone by one side of a great set of horns. Fenris can just make out the patch over his left eye.

"Bull?" He says into the darkness. There is no response.

The Qunari looks bruised and beaten. Fenris looks to the cell door, but it is firmly locked. A quick glance around the room reveals no apparent set of keys. He then realizes where they are: with the guard now locked in the storage room.

He looks closely at the lock attempting to determine if he could phase into it and trigger its mechanism. It is unlikely.

His thoughts are interrupted by a voice behind him.

"Eh, what have we here, now?"

He spins to see the three men from earlier standing in the doorway.

"Hey knife-ear, servants aren't allowed down here," the large man in the middle smirks, "But you aren't a servant, are you?"


	10. Cage

Lavellan and Dorian excuse themselves from the party as quickly as they can. Once away, they move down the corridors on their way to the guest quarters.

On the way, they round a corner to meet Varric.

"What's wrong, the food that bad?" He says with a slight laugh.

Lavellan's face makes him immediately lose his humorous tone. His expression turns serious. "What is it?"

"Danarius. He's here," Dorian says.

Varric's eyes blink several times in succession. "Wait. What? … You mean? Oh, shit."

"Do you know where they are?" Dorian asks with impatience in his voice.

"He wandered off about an hour ago. Hawke just left to find him. C'mon, we should be able to catch up."

\---

"There's nowhere to run, elf."

Fenris quickly considers his options as the men close the distance toward him. The leader appears strong and capable even unarmed. The one on the right has pulled a dagger from his belt.

"Surrender and we'll go easy on you," the leader says. "This is going to go the same either way. Save yourself the pain," he grins.

"I've dealt with your kind more than you know," Fenris replies. "I am no stranger to slavers."

The man briefly looks surprised. "Heh. We've got a smart one, boys. Think he'll fetch a nice price with the Magister or one of his friends?"

Magister? Fenris does not have time to think about the comment. They are upon him just after. The men believe they have it easy against an unarmed, unarmored elf. They are wrong.

The leader dives to grab his wrist in an attempt to pull him to the ground. Instead, the man's hand slips through Fenris' forearm as his marks come alight, phasing his hand enough to ignore the grasp. Fenris cuts his other arm upward, slamming his fist into the man's jaw, eliciting a pained yell between grit teeth. Another quick swing and he brings his elbow down on the back of the man's neck, knocking him face-first to the ground.

He steps back as the other two watch and reconsider their approach. The one with the dagger moves quickly to flank, taking up position to Fenris' left. Just as the leader groans and starts to get up, Fenris decides to take the offensive. He moves to the right toward the other unarmed man.

He lets his marks glow brighter in an attempt to intimidate him. The man seems a bit unsure, but stands his ground. Jumping forward, he parries a punch from his opponent, then uppercuts into the man's ribs. Just before contact, he allows his arm to phase and slide effortlessly into the chest.

Fenris feels a soft, rapid pulse as his hand re-solidifies around the man's heart.

A choked gasp and wheeze as his fist tightens. Fenris' other hand grabs the man's shoulder and spins them both around to place the mass in between him and the other two men. The leader is now up to his right, the other directly in front.

With a push, Fenris drives forward, ramming into the the one with the dagger. It is enough to knock him backward against the door on the back wall.

The door was not latched, and swings open from the force. The man stumbles backward through it, tripping on a loose floorboard while attempting to gain his footing. There is nothing more within to catch his fall. He plummets into great hole in the floor where the majority of the next room has long before torn away from the keep.

The great sound of rushing water is now loud throughout the room. Fenris releases his grip and phases out of the first man's chest, a trail of blood dripping from his tightened fist. The man's body slumps down onto the stone floor.

The leader looks in horror at the scene, then focuses his eyes hard on Fenris.

"I know you. You are supposed to be dead."

"Sorry to disappoint," Fenris spits.

"I'm going to crush you, little elf, and get paid more than I could ever dream."

"Better men than you have tried and failed."

The slaver pulls something small from the pouch on his belt, holding it in his hand. Fenris cannot tell what it is, but has a solid guess. The man moves in an arc around Fenris, vying for an upper hand.

Fenris moves forward in a flash, ducking to the right and attempting to land a blow on this man's ribs as he had before. His opponent foresees the attack, taking a rapid dive to the side.

Just as Fenris passes, the slaver throws the contents of his hand up toward the elf's face. Fenris is ready for it, ducking away and protecting himself from the fine powder that explodes in a soft green cloud.

He keeps his footing, looking back for the leader between the now-settling wisps of dust. They've swapped sides, with neither landing a successful hit.

As soon as the powder has diluted out of the air, the slaver leaps, grabbing the bars of the nearby cell and leveraging his foot upward in a high kick. Fenris dives to the side, but is not expecting the man to pull his knee down in kind, bringing it hard against his face as he moves.

He falls slightly, catching himself and rolling out of the way of the slaver, who is attempting to dive on top of him. Fenris manages to get himself upright enough to drive a hard fist toward the man's gut.

His hand phases to drive into the abdomen, but the slaver realizes what is happening and pushes himself back just enough to avoid the attack. Fenris pulls his elbow up quickly, making slight contact with the man's jaw. It is enough to knock the man off balance, but not quite enough to knock him down.

The slaver stumbles back slightly, attempting to catch himself. Fenris dives upward to strike another blow.

He sees too late that this was the man's intention. Just before he makes contact, the man lets his legs collapse and falls under the elf.

Fenris dives sideways out of reach of a punch, but not of a second handfull of powder the man had ready without him realizing. He tries to turn away, but some manages to strike the right side of his face, impacting his eye and cheek.

He ducks downward, attempting his best not to breathe in any of the cloud, and rolls over the man, grabbing hold of his shirt collar as he does.

It is enough to begin spinning them both around each other on the floor, the two vying for a foothold.  
  
His eye is now burning with the start of tears. He tries to keep focus. The slaver manages to get on top of him, holding his forearm to the elf's throat and pinning him down.

Fenris activates his marks and starts to phase his right hand, but the slaver delivers a hard blow to his face just below his searing right eye. It causes him to lose concentration, his hand returning to normal.

The slaver then drives his knee hard into Fenris' stomach. He gasps in pain. Both eyes are clouding, his body's response to the numb burning sensation now creeping along his entire face. He sees the man pull his hand from his belt pouch once more.

"That's right elf, now give me a nice deep breath and this will all be over."

The words are distant.

Fenris' blood shoots hard with adrenaline. He focuses all of his strength on his marks, letting out one powerful blast with anything he can muster.

They come alight in a strong flash. The force does not knock the slaver back, but does cause his hand to fly upward, slamming into his own face. The powder erupts between them.

The man yells and chokes, ducking off to the side and coughing wildly.

Fenris takes the opportunity to roll out of his grasp. He attempts to get to his feet but finds his legs are made of lead. His head is spinning as soon as he gets to his knees. He stumbles, moving far enough to grab hold of the bars of one of the cells.

His vision is cloudy. His right eye stings so badly he can barely open it. Looking back through the pain, he sees the slaver stumbling to his feet, still covering his face with his sleeve, attempting to wipe off the remaining powder.

Fenris' muscles feel weak and his breathing is heavy. He knows that if the slaver manages to grab hold of him again, it is likely he will be unable to break free.

He chooses to run.

He moves as quickly as he is able, swaying through the first few steps, as if he were attempting to run through deep water. His mind screams for his body to push forward.

Making it to the door, he keeps his footing. He does not look back for the man. Then it's to the stairs, bounding up, trying to stay upright.

A leap up the first few without issue, but the further he goes the more his legs begin to faulter. The stairway seems to go on forever. Up and around a shallow corner. Is it the first, or the fifth?

Finally, his vision focuses through bright torchlight and he sees the door. He grabs the doorframe and steadies himself. In that instant he chooses to look back, but sees only the blurry image of empty stairs. He pulls hard on the door.

The cold outside air is painful as it swings open and he takes a breath. It feels like needles stuck in his lungs. He cannot focus enough to tell what is on the other side. There is only the dark of night. Is there even anyone around?

It is then that his legs give up. He collapses in the doorway.

\---

"There he is!"

The voice is distant. There are more words, but he can't quite make them out. Fenris can only feel the cold dirt beneath him.

Suddenly he feels lighter. He opens his eyes enough to see blurry shapes. Two at first, then two more. His eyes focus and he realizes it's his boots. He is being carried by the shoulders, his feet awkwardly walking along adding little contact with the ground.

He tries to look up. A face comes into view. It's Hawke. His arm is around his shoulders, keeping Fenris upright.

A moment later he sees the others. Lavellan's face is suddenly right close in front of his, looking intently into his eyes. Her mouth moves.

"Fenris, can you hear us?" She says. "Can you speak? What happened?"

"Slavers," he manages to say, half a whisper. His throat is dry and hot.

More talking as the others try and piece things together.

"I say we cut our losses," Varric says. "If things weren't bad enough already, now this."

"So we should leave?" Dorian starts. "What about…"

"We can figure it out later. We just can't stay _here_," Hawke says.

"Come on, this way." Lavellan says. "There is a back way through the ramparts."

\---

They make their way through the fortress' back areas, quickly moving past servants and workers.

When they reach the garden, they quickly descend the stairs and move along the wall. Two guards are posted nearby, and look to them curiously. When they open the door to the room housing the eluvian, the two men begin marching toward them, yelling ahead "You, stop!"

They enter the room and close the door behind them. Dorian and Varric quickly move a large bench in front of the door, momentarily barring access. The guards begin banging loudly on the door.

"Well, so much for hospitality," Dorian says dryly. "Are you sure about this?"

"I don't know, but I'm not sure I want to stick around to find out," Varric says.

Lavellan steps toward the eluvian and focuses.

Her hands glow with magic. She raises them toward the glass. A rush of energy.

Nothing happens.

The door begins to rattle as the men break the latch and push from the other side.

She looks at the mirror with confusion. Once again, she focuses the spell and directs it to the mirror. Just as before, it flows over it with no effect.

Dorian steps up to her side. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to open it."

The sound of wood scraping along the stone floor as the door begins to budge. A guard's arm slips through the crack to gain more leverage.

"What can we do?" Dorian asks impatiently. "Do we fight?"

Lavellan tries the spell quickly one last time. Once again, nothing. She lowers her hands just as the men manage to open the door.

She looks back. Hawke and Dorian are standing ready to protect them. Varric pulls Bianca from his back. The guards have pulled their swords. Behind them, she can see more approaching.

She pauses. "No, stand down," she says with a heavy breath. "Don't fight them."

They are held where they stand for several moments. The guards do not say anything, nor do they advance.

A short time later, the figure of Trevelyan moves through the guards and enters the room.

He surveys the situation. "Going somewhere?" He says.

They all remain silent.

"Forgive me," he begins. "I took the liberty of adding an additional layer of protection to the eluvian. Wouldn't want anyone else walking into Skyhold unannounced."

Lavellan steps forward. "Please. Allow us to leave. We cannot stay here."

"Why?" He asks. "Do you not consider this a place safe, Inquisitor?"

Lavellan considers her words carefully. "One of my people is in danger. He was attacked. I intend to protect him."

"Attacked? Are you sure he is not the attacker?" Trevelyan's eyes steel. "I've been informed that one of my guards was ambushed and locked in a storeroom, and two workers were killed. Another has been taken to the infirmary. Would you care to explain?"

"I cannot. I know is that he would not harm anyone unless provoked."

"Why don't we ask him, then?" Trevelyan looks over to Hawke, who is standing defensively, blocking a slumped-over Fenris from view.

Two of the guards begin move forward. Hawke holds his hands out in preparation to attack. "You will not lay a hand on him." Even without a staff, he is a powerful force to face.

"Maybe everyone should just calm down a bit," Varric says.

"Fenris is in no condition to speak right now," Lavellan says. "As I said, he was attacked. If you insist on barring our passage, please allow us to seek your healer. Then he will be able to explain what happened."

"There's no need. I have already realized the truth. You are agents of the Qunari and this entire charade of yours was concocted to infiltrate Skyhold."

Lavellan blinks. "What? That's just not true."

"You really expect me, after all this, to believe you're from another world? That you're here by pure accident, with no knowledge of how or why, holding no ill intentions, in the middle of a war."

"Yes. I thought we'd proven that."

"You've proven nothing. None of your story can be confirmed. And, Maker, it is a good story. Sprinkled with little hints of things only my people should know. But I like my version better. Somehow your people found a way to access this eluvian, and emulate the anchor. So they sent a team of spies masquerading as lost allies through to collect intelligence. But, something went wrong. Your man got caught trying to get information from our recent captive. So you decided to cut your losses and retreat. And it was all made possible by that amulet that you're hiding and refuse to acknowledge."

Trevelyan looks to Dorian, whose eyes are unnerved. "Oh, don't look so surprised. I've had ears listening, as well. This amulet is what made it possible to get through the defenses set into Skyhold's eluvian. And who better to do so, than three men supposedly killed in the Kirkwall uprising, a Dalish elf, and a Tevinter mage. All of you in the perfect position to have joined the Qun."

"It's true," Lavellan says, "We didn't tell you about the amulet. But not for that reason. We are not Qunari spies. It wasn't the eluvian that caused this. The amulet, it's… a type of magic that could prove extremely dangerous if used improperly. We didn't want…"

"What? You didn't want us to have it?"

"Yes. It…"

"Inquisitor, don't…" Dorian pleads.

Lavellan looks to him knowingly before continuing. "It has the power to move the user back or forward in time. We used it as a last resort to go back in time six months and rescue Hawke. But when we attempted to return, something went wrong and we were sent to the right time in your world instead."

"How convenient. But I'm far beyond entertaining your lies."

Trevelyan looks to the guards to his side. "Search them. Starting with him," pointing to Dorian.

Dorian back off slightly. "Now now, there's no need for…" but he's cut off as the two men grab his arms and hold him in place. A third begins searching his pouches.

The guard pulls the amulet from where it is stashed, and holds it up for Trevelyan to see. He gives a confirming nod.

A moment later, the guard pulls something else from Dorian's pouch. Another pendant, this one smaller.

"Wait, please leave that alone," Dorian says. "It's personal."

On Trevelyan's wave, the guard hands it over.

"Ah, what do we have here?" Trevelyan says, looking at it closer. "What would a Tevinter mage be doing with a Qunari token?"

"Vishante kaffas," Dorian says beneath his breath.

The guards move to Varric, checking his pockets. They pull a deck of cards and two hidden knives.

"I travel light," he says with a dry spite.

"Now the elf," Trevelyan says, motioning to Fenris.

The guards move toward him, but Hawke stands firm. "I told you that you will not lay a hand on him." Hawke's hands begin to glow red with forming fire.

"Hawke, wait!" Varric yells.

"No, Varric. I'm done letting these people do as they please. I'm going to protect him from this mess."

Hawke waves his hand in a wide arc, beginning to form a wall of fire between their group and the guards.

His motion is stopped halfway through. He pauses in midair, suddenly interrupted, visibly struggling to move. Suddenly, he falls to his knees and yells out in pain.

"Stand down, mage!"

From behind Trevelyan steps Cassandra. A blue glow emanating from her gauntlet as she focuses her abilities on Hawke to set the lyrium in his blood ablaze.

Hawke lets out another cry of pain as the flames subside. He struggles for another moment before being overcome. In his already weakened state, falls to his side, gasping for breath. "No! I won't… let you…"

Lavellan moves to his side and looks angrily at them. "Was that really necessary, Seeker?"

"Threaten the Inquisitor again, and I will do far worse, mage," she says.

Trevelyan step forward. "Take them to the cells. If they resist, show them what we do with spies. I will deal with this after I've seen to my guests. And take that amulet to Danarius. He can figure out what it truly is."

\---

They offer no further resistance as they're led back out to the courtyard, and down into the dungeon, each placed in a separate cell. Varric, Dorian, and Lavellan on one side, Hawke and Fenris on the other.

"Try anything, mages, and you'll find a Templar boot firmly shoved up your arse," says one of the guards.

They lock the cells and walk out, leaving two Templar guards remaining on watch just outside the door.

Fenris is still unconscious. Hawke tries his best to see around the wall dividing them, but fails.

"So much for hospitality," says Dorian, sitting down in the cleanest spot he can find.

"What now?," asks Hawke.

"Well, let's ignore the issue at hand and back up. Why was Fenris attacked?" Dorian asks.

"He said there were slavers. That's all we know," Lavellan says. "Hawke found him collapsed just outside in the courtyard, right before we caught up."

"Ten-to-one the slavers belong to Danarius," Varric says.

"I'm sorry, what?," replies Hawke.

"Right. We hadn't told you yet," says Dorian. "One guess who we discovered is Trevelyan's mage advisor."

Hawke is quiet, then his eyes widen in fear. "You can't be serious."

"Unfortunately, it's true," Lavellan confirms.

"Shit. Maker gods damn fucking shit."

"Hawke…"

"No, Varric. Don't start. This is shit and you all know it." Hawke spins around and lets his back side down the wall, coming to sit just beside the bars.

Dorian rubs his temples. "Okay, he found slavers. But what were they doing in Skyhold in the first place?"

"Probably posing as servants," Varric says. "Fenris obviously stumbled upon _something_, and they attacked him for it."

Lavellan sighs. "And now Trevelyan thinks we're spies."

"What are our options, then?" Dorian asks. "Wait for him to try us for treason and send us to the gallows?"

"We need to figure out how to prove to him that we are who we say we are," Lavellan states.

"I don't know about you," Dorian says, "but at this point I don't think I would believe us, either."

"Don't be such a pessimist, Sparkler."

"But that's what I'm best at, Varric. Figuring out just how enormously screwed we are and pointing it out. Even if we do manage to convince him, what then? Do we really think he'll just let us merrily go on our way? 'Oh, sorry about the whole throwing you in prison business. Here's your amulet back, no hard feeling?'"

"I mean, it couldn't hurt?"

"No. Now they're going to start toying around with the amulet, and once they figure out how to activate it, they'll put it to use. Exactly what I _didn't_ want to happen in the first place."

"They won't be able to activate it, though." Lavellan asks. "There is no breach here, either."

"Oh, but we helpfully detailed to them how we re-entered the Fade. They could put two-and-two together and figure out what we did. Then it's just a quick trip back in time and they can rewrite this little war in their favor."

A loud bang rings out as something slams against the bars of the cell just down from Hawke.

"Will you keep it _down_? Bah. My head is _killing_ me. I don't need you four bickering at each other like children."

They all fall silent at the voice.

Dorian moves to the edge of his cell and grasps the bars, looking across the room. "Bull?"

"Yeah, who's asking?" His voice sounds raspy and tired. "And, it's 'the Iron Bull.'"

"I…" Dorian starts. "I can't believe it's you."

"Well, believe it."

A silence falls over the room.

"I suppose you are what Fenris found, then," says Dorian.

Bull looks out from the cell more closely. "Do I know you? I'm pretty sure I would remember a mouthy 'Vint like you."

"You probably wouldn't believe us if we tried," laments Varric.

"Try me," he says.

Varric looks to the others. Hawke is still staring off into the void of his cell. Lavellan shrugs.

"Alright. We're from the Inquisition, but not this Inquisition. Through a series of complicated and weird-as-shit events we managed to accidentally find ourselves stranded in a duplicate of our world where history happened slightly differently, up to and including the fact that Southern Thedas is pretty much at war with the Qunari. We were trying to figure out how to get home when our elven friend over there stumbled upon some slavers that were probably hired by a certain Magister. That Magister doing Maker knows what behind the scenes, maybe or maybe not at the behest of the other Inquisitor who I'm calling right now is _our_ Inquisitor's evil doppelgänger. Or, at least more irritable doppelgänger."

A short silence, followed by, "Huh. And you know me, how?"

"You're also part of our Inquisition. Along with your band of mercenaries."

"That so?"

"Wait… you believe us?" Dorian asks.

Bull laughs heartedly, coughing slightly from his still-recovering lungs. "No, but that's a pretty good one."

Dorian's head comes to rest on the bars with a faint 'clunk'.

"But it doesn't matter what I believe. We're all in a jail cell. Prisoners, as you said, of the Inquisition. What we think matters all of squat."

"Why are you here?" Lavellan asks.

"Isn't it obvious? The horns don't give it away?"

"Yes, you're Qunari," she says. "But why did they imprison you? And furthermore, how? The Bull I know is… or, was… a spy for the Ben-Hassrath. One that, under most circumstances, would be damn near impossible to take down."

"Yeah. I used to do field work in Orlais, years ago. Did mercenary work, too, before my people decided the Free Marches needed to be converted. After that, your people weren't as welcoming of someone with these," he says, tapping his horns. "So I spent the last couple years doing what little recon I could and coordinating reports for the Ben-Hassrath. Even offered my services to the Inquisitor, once, back when he was still just 'the Herald'. He turned me down. Eventually the Inquisition decided that it was too risky letting Qunari agents walk around unchecked. They chased me for a few months. I made some bad calls; Let myself get sloppy. They caught up to me in Ferelden with some kind of new 'Vint knockout powder."

"What about the Chargers?" Lavellan asks.

Bull is quiet for a moment.

"That's none of your business."

"Alright, I'm sorry."

"After I was captured, my memory is pretty hazy, until I woke up a little while ago here when they were carting the lot of you in."

"Wait, so you're still a spy for the Ben-Hassrath?" Dorian asks.

"Yeah, what of it?"

"Presumably they captured you for information, then."

"It's likely. I won't be able to tell them much they don't already know, though. Not that they won't try. My specialty was in gathering information, not holding it."

Dorian beings muttering as his head rests on the bars. "I suppose it's no coincidence that this Inquisitor is convinced we're Qunari spies when there's a captured one in here with us. He probably thinks we came here to break you free."

"Then he'd be an idiot. Qunari don't send a whole team to break an agent out. They either break themselves out, maybe with a bit of help from a spy already in the ranks, or make sure there's no way the enemy will gain any intel from them."

"And how would they do that?"

Bull grunts. "Let's just say if you get lucky you'd take some of them down with you."

"Alright," Varric starts quietly, "if we can't convince Trevelyan that _we_ aren't spies, is there any hope of escaping?"

"The eluvian is a lost hope, now, I think," says Dorian. "Trevelyan will have it guarded constantly, not to mention the safeguards he's put in place."

"Other options?" Varric asks.

Lavellan taps her fingers on the bars. "Assuming we could get out of these cells, and past the two Templars ready to nullify mine, Dorian, and Hawke's magic, then up the stairway into the courtyard full of guards and Inquisition agents, through the gates, down the mountain path leading right into camps of soldiers… well…"

"Don't forget we'd still be in the middle of the Frostbacks approaching Winter," offers Dorian.

"Of course," she says.

"Alright," says Varric. "Assuming we could get through all that. What then?"

"Then we're still stuck in an alternate Thedas," she says.

"Right." Varric's voice is low.

Bull steps back to the bars. "Wait… you mentioned one of those elven mirror things."

"The eluvian?" Lavellan's asks.

"Yeah, that. What's important about it?"

"It's how we arrived here. If we have any hope of returning to our own world, we'd need to go through a working one. Unfortunately, I don't know the location of any others that might still be functional."

Bull makes a low grunt. "I… might know where one is."

"You do?"

"Yeah. And I'd be willing to tell you where it is, as soon as we're on the other side of those mountains out there."


	11. Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops! Accidentally posted this chapter earlier today without the last scene. Fixed, now!

It has been several hours since the guards had taken Fenris.

Hawke had screamed for them to stop, but they of course did not heed him. After he'd slammed his fists into the bars one-too-many times, a Templar moved near and knocked him down with a mana-sapping move to prevent him from casting any magic. Another carefully watched Lavellan and Dorian. It was clear that rogue mages had no power here.

"Where are you taking him?" Lavellan had demanded. Her voice had been steeled and strong.

The guards did not say a word. They just scooped the unconscious elf up between them and carried him out.

After the Templars released him, Hawke had bitterly swallowed his rising anger. "Yes, yes," he'd growled as the others watched helplessly. "I'm no good to us if the Templars make me tranquil."

After some time things had quieted. They had not been disturbed again, with only the two guards outside.

It must now be early morning, Lavellan thinks.

Admittedly, she had managed to find a couple hours of broken sleep. Looking out into the room, lit by a couple of dimming torches, she surveys the other cells.

Hawke is lying on his side, turned away from the bars.

Bull is sitting on his bedroll motionless, seemingly lost in thought or meditation.

The sound of rushing water can be heard faintly through the door on the far side of the room.

"Inquisitor, are you awake?" Varric asks in a low whisper from behind the wall separating them.

"Yes, I am."

"How are you holding up?"

"Well enough, considering the circumstances. Are you alright?"

"I've been better. But I've little room to complain," he says. "Have you had any more thoughts on how we might get out of here?"

"A few. But unfortunately none of them end well."

"I don't suppose it's too much to ask for your adventitious luck to help us out."

"My what?"

"Haven't you noticed? You've made a habit of getting into dire situations and somehow pulling off the impossible."

"Varric…"

"Think about it. First Redcliffe, then Haven, Adamant, and Halamshiral. Then the Arbor Wilds and Haven again, just to top it all off. Plus you've defeated pretty much everyone in Skyhold at Wicked Grace a dozen times except Ruffles."

"It's not luck, Varric. It's the people I've had at my side."

"Humble as ever. You have to admit, though. Even with all of the talented folks, things have a habit of going in our favor, somehow. Personally, I like to believe it's an aura you emit. It helps us in our darkest hours."

Lavellan falls silent for a time. "Why do you have to say these thing?," she says, somewhat earnestly. "It only sets me up to disappoint you all when that luck runs out."

"You… could never disappoint me, Inquisitor. And that's not something I've said to many people."

Even though she cannot see his face, she suspects what look Varric's face now shows. It is one she'd seen only once or twice before. When his lustrous and carefully-curated demeanor cracks and all that's left is a reflecting melancholy. The face of a man who's had his fair share of betrayals from those he'd thought he'd known.

The sound of the rushing water comes back into Lavellan's ears. It fills the room with soft noise. She wishes she could tell Varric just how similar she feels right now.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the door opening. The guards still stand outside it, one's side clearly visible through the frame.

Through the door walks a thin elven woman. In her arms she carries a tray holding five bowls.

She walks first to Hawke's cell and peers inside silently. When he does not stir, she simply takes one from the tray and places it beside the bars. Then, gliding with little sound, she moves to the next cell, holding Bull. The other Bull. Again she sets the small wooden dish on the stone floor.

Lavellan watches the woman cross over and out of view. A brief moment later, she hears a muted "thank you." So Dorian is awake, after all.

A similar remark from Varric when she passes by and sets his portion down. All the while, the woman says nothing.

Lavellan is still sitting in the middle of her cell when the woman steps into view. She carefully takes the last bowl from the tray and carefully places it just outside the bars. As her head comes up, her bright green eyes focus on Lavellan.

Their eyes meet, and the world pauses, as she does not immediately move away. Lavellan, realizing this, searches her face. She does not recognize it. Young, maybe slightly more so that herself. A city elf, presumably, working as a servant.

The woman realizes her gaze has lingered, and quickly snaps her head away. She stands fully upright and smooths down her smock. She walks from the room, the sound of the door latch closing landing sharply behind her.

"Well, at least they're feeding us," Varric mutters from behind the wall. Lavellan hears him step up to the bars and pick up the bowl.

\---

Hawke awakens to sound and movement beside him. He wipes his vision clear. The other half of the sheets have bunched up, pushed backward toward him.

It's a cold night. The fire is now just embers. Winters in Kirkwall are never quiet as cold as Ferelden, but nights can still carry a deep chill in the air.

On the far side of the bed, Fenris lies still. His back is turned to Hawke, the sheets pushed off. His marks emit the subtlest of glows, moving up and down the lines in a slow, barely-perceptible pattern.

Every so often, he shakes for an instant. His breathing becomes heavy. The glow intensifies. Soon it all calms. Then, it happens again. And again.

Hawke reaches out and places his palm on Fenris' back. His skin is warm, smooth, and damp from sweating.

He feels the muscles in the elf's back flex and tighten again. The marks glow brighter near his hand. The small amount of ambient magic Hawke carries in his blood reacts like static. A dull tingle, like he's being pulled in closer.

Fenris relaxes again, his breathing shallow. The smallest of sounds escapes with his breath.

It is not the first time such a dream has affected the elf in the months since he began spending nights at Hawke's estate. Most are over quickly. Fenris would jolt himself awake and sit up in bed, sweating and confused. Breathing heavily for several moments, and with Hawke trying his best to offer support, his mind would clear and he would calm. He'd apologize, before the two would curl up together once again.

This time, he does not immediately wake. A few more cycles of the stress pass, with Hawke's hand remaining lightly on his shoulder blade. Slowly, it begins to subside. His breathing becomes more regular. The marks dim.

He knows it must be torture for Fenris to relive moments from his past in his dreams. The same way Hawke's sleeping mind revisits the nightmare of Bethany's last moments. And his mother. He feels a tight pain in his chest, and forces away the thought.

Hawke feels the rise and fall of Fenris' breath a few more times before pulling his hand back gently. Freeing the thin sheet from between them, he covers the elf's torso. The only sound now is the occasional crackle from the embers in the fireplace.

Hawke lies back, lost in thought, looking up toward the cords and drapery surrounding the bed frame. Even now, as a free man, Fenris must still sometimes face his demons, imposters that they may be. They are never truly gone for anyone.

He would do anything to protect the man beside him, and for now that means just being there when he is needed.

Soon, his mind drifts off to the Fade once more.

\---

Lavellan's thoughts are broken once more as the door to the cells opens. It could not yet have been an hour since they'd been fed.

From the far side walks Cassandra. This Seeker carries the same scowl and dark air present since they'd first met the day before, at the war table. She stands in the middle of the room, surveying the cells, before placing her focus on Lavellan.

"Open this one," she says.

A guard quickly enters behind her, pulls a ring of keys from his hip, and selects the correct one. The door is opened.

Cassandra stands just outside the cell, looking the elven woman up and down.

"Come with me."

Lavellan carefully steps forward and out of the cell. "Where are we going?"

"You are to provide answers."

Cassandra motions to the guard, who pulls a set of iron wrist restraints from the wall.

"Is that really necessary?," she asks.

The Seeker does not answer, she only continues to stare with an iron resolve.

After a moment's hesitation, Lavellan reaches out her arms. The guard attaches the restraints quickly.

Lavellan is led back out into the courtyard. It is indeed morning, now. The sun is warm overhead. The Seeker watches her closely, ever ready to act if she should try and escape.

Once across the yard, they enter the main keep. Into the great hall, they move off down the small side passage that leads to the base of the rotunda.

The room is dimly lit. More so that she's used to. She is led to the middle of the room, where a short wooden chair waits. The Seeker instructs her to sit. She does so. Her restraints are removed, and the guards move out of the room.

It was this room, in another Skyhold, that once sat a table of notes and papers. Pacing around it would likely be the figure of one particularly proud elven mage.

That is all absent, here. Instead all that remains are the murals, painted in the same way. Lavellan looks them over closely, now, having paid little attention the first time she'd walked through. There are differences both subtle and stark from the ones she knows too well.

"Let's begin. Who sent you?," the Seeker asks.

"Nobody sent us. I told you before. We ended up here by mistake."

"The Inquisitor believes you are spies for the Qunari."

"But you do not?"

"I reserve judgement until I know the truth."

"Is that why I'm here? To appeal to your curiosity?"

"You are here because I am responsible for the safety and security of the Inquisition. I am here to determine what kind of threat you pose."

"We are not spies for the Qunari. We are not spies at all."

"Then help me fill in the holes in your story. Why was your mage associate carrying a Qunari pendant?"

"Because it was given to him by a Tal-Vashoth mercenary. A person for whom he cares greatly."

"A Tal-Vashoth? You mean a follower who abandoned the Qun?"

"Yes."

"And it just so happens that three of the members of your party are suspected casualties of the uprising in Kirkwall?"

"That… is an unfortunate coincidence."

Cassandra begins walking slowly in a circle around Lavellan. The dim light of the room makes it seem all the larger. The Seeker's footsteps echo down into the adjacent corridors.

"We have so far been unable to validate any of your story. How am I to believe that so many links between you and the Qunari are to be overlooked?"

"I… do not know how I can convince you. We only wish to return home."

"Through the eluvian?"

"Yes… well, that's part of it."

The Seeker considers for a moment, running her hand across the edge of her breastplate.

"You said that the only way you could return was to go back through it, and somehow recreate the events that led to you being transported here."

"We believe that, yes."

"But you failed to mention the amulet before."

"Yes. That was… on purpose. We did not want it falling into the wrong hands."

"You told the Inquisitor that it is time magic. Our best mage advisors have assured me that such magic is theoretical at best, and likely impossible."

"Well… Dorian is resourceful."

The Seeker lets out a sigh of frustration. "Very well. So you arrived here accidentally with the help of a time-manipulating amulet. With no apparent goal except to enjoy our hospitality until you were able to return from where you came. All the while one of your people was sneaking around, gathering intelligence."

"Fine. I'll admit, Fenris was sneaking around. I don't know why he did it in the first place, but something must have tipped him off. He did find your little secret in the cells, though. You can't overlook that."

Cassandra turns to Lavellan, and steps forward directly in front of her. The torchlight dances across her face making distinct shadows across her sharp cheekbones.

"I'm to believe that his goal was not to free the Qunari spy?"

"Yes. How in Mythal's name would he even accomplish that? It's not exactly easy to escort a Qunari out of Skyhold without someone noticing."

"His intent could just as easily have been to recover information," the Seeker retorts. "The guards tell me you were speaking to him. I don't suppose it would be at all useful to hear what he might have told you?"

"He wishes to escape. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want the same."

"But you are familiar with him, are you not?"

"Yes."

The Seeker almost sounds surprised at the admission. "What dealing have you had with him?"

"In our world, he is not our enemy. The Qunari are a powerful force and a potential threat, yes, but he is not. He is one of my agents, and a close friend. Initially, he offered to share information with us in exchange with passing information to the Qunari about Corypheus and the Breach. But after things deteriorated, he chose to leave behind his past to help those he cared about most."

"He chose to become a Tal-Vashoth?"

"He did."  
  
"And you believe this to be the same man you know?"

"I… would like to. I do not admit to knowing who any of us are after taking a different path. But I feel that deep down, he must be the same person. Just as you are." Lavellan pauses. "Why did you imprison him in the first place?"

"Because he is an asset in the war. Our agents identified him as a member of their spy network months ago. He could provide invaluable information. We went to great lengths to track him down."

"So you captured him because he _might_ have information?"

"Yes," Cassandra sighs.

"How can you justify that? Do you even have cause to hold him?"

"His people's actions in the Free Marches are the cause."

"The Seeker I know wouldn't possibly believe that. Question him, maybe. Even intimidate the void out of him. But not capture, and not imprison. And the Inquisition I know doesn't employ slavers to do their dirty work."

Cassandra pauses for a moment. "What do you mean, slavers?"

"Fenris seemed certain the men who attacked him were slavers."

"The men who assisted in the Qunari's capture were mercenaries hired by the Inquisitor."

"I'm willing to bet, though, that their employ was recommended by a certain Magister." The thought comes to Lavellan as quickly as it escapes her lips.

The Seeker makes a frustrated face. "If that's true, the Inquisitor could not have known their background."

Lavellan looks back up, now. "Are you so sure? Forgive me, but I've come to suspect your Inquisitor might be a little less aligned with the greater good than you might expect."

"Watch your tongue! The Inquisitor is a hero. One that has had to make countless decisions wherein thousands of lives hung in the balance. The weight on his shoulders is not to be taken lightly. Not every choice is one made easily, and yes, some times less honorable routes must be taken to ensure the safety of Thedas."

Lavellan is struck quiet. She has suddenly realized how similar this conversation must sound to one she herself had not long ago in the library above.

She takes a moment to steady herself and consider her words. "Believe me, Seeker, I understand. We must make hard decisions that, no matter the choice, cost lives. I tell you the truth when I say as Inquisitor I have faced the same decisions."

"If you truly are the same as the Inquisitor," Cassandra begins, "you would know what must be done to protect people."

"Yes, I do. But there is a line that exists, out on the horizon. When you step over it, you discard your true values and focus only on your goal, with no consideration for who you may hurt along the way. It is difficult to return from such a place. I've had people beside me to remind me of what is truly important. I haven't seen enough to be sure, but from what little I have, I'm beginning to wonder where on that line your Inquisition falls. And I know you are better than that."

"You speak to me once again as if you know me. But I have no reason to believe you."

"I know you, because I've fought beside you. I know that you are the kind of person who would lay down her life for strangers. You aren't the type to blindly accuse and lay blame. It's the reason you trusted me after the conclave, when everyone else firmly believed I caused the Breach."

Cassandra is quiet once more, her face seemingly lost in consideration as to whether the woman before her can be trusted.

"I've heard enough for now," she says while motioning for the guards to re-enter. "Take her back to the cells. Then bring the Tevinter mage." Looking back to Lavellan, she sighs once more. "You weave an excellent story, but I fear it is nothing more than that."

\---

Fenris' eyes slowly open.

The cloud begins to lift from his mind. He is cold.

He feels himself lying on his side against a hard floor, head throbbing. Disoriented and trying to focus, it's apparent that he is in near-total darkness.

He moves his hands to right himself, but discovers that they are bound together.

Pushing himself upward, he attempts to stand. Just after he rises he feels his balance waver. He can only make it to his knees. His mind is spinning, joints feeling stiff from being unconscious on the stone floor. An ache has spread across his face.

He can see only a slit of dim light, coming in from a door a short distance away. It provides just enough light to gain a muted sense of the room. It is small. No furniture or fixtures. just the door and four walls.

His bindings are simple iron. He looks around them, testing his movement and the flexibility in his wrists. With a steadying breath, he focuses his marks. A low blue glow briefly emits from his arms. The room gains an eerie luminescence.

Just as quickly, a sharp pain shoots throughout his entire body, centered on his throat. He gasps and releases a low cry, falling forward onto the floor, muscles refusing to hold his weight.

His marks dim out but the pain remains. It is hot fire spread along his skin and deep into his muscles, making his every movement torture.

It takes several moments before the feeling begins to lessen. The sharpness dulls into a cold, harrowing ache. He flexes his head and feels something. A collar, likely metal, secured around his neck.

He hears footsteps approach the door, then the sound of the lock as it is released. The door opens and the room is flooded with bright light, blinding his vision. He is still slumped forward against the stone floor, resting on his knees.

"He's awake," says a voice he does not recognize.

Another set of footsteps enter through the door and approach, stopping in front of him. A hand reaches out. He can feel its presence more than see it. There is the sensation of magic around him, like pine needles beneath bare feet, as the aching pain throughout his body fades.

The magic and pain vanish together. The hand reaches down and comes to rest on his chin, tenderly lifting to pull his head up. Fenris' vision finally adjusts to the light.

The sight of the man before him threatens to tear his heart clean out of his chest. This must be a nightmare.

"Ah, there you are, my little wolf. How I've missed those eyes."

Fenris reflexively dives backward, his back crashing into the wall behind him to land on the floor.

Danarius chuckles. "And here I was, hoping you might be joyed to see me. It has been quite a long time."

Fear and confusion is all he can feel. A deep fear that he has not truly felt for years. As if suddenly the years of resolve were stripped away for an instant.

"How?" Fenris tries, but his throat is dry.

"_How?_" he replies. "You should know very well how. After all, you are the reason all of this has been possible."

Danarius smiles at the same time Fenris remembers where he is and makes the connections.

"You see, it must have been nearly five years ago. I was sorely disappointed when I received word my apprentice had failed to complete her mission, and even allowed herself to be killed in the process. Incompetence. I decided right then it was time to stop relying on others to do such a simple job. I would have to finish it myself. But, after a great deal of planning and preparation, do you know what happened?"

A rhetorical pause as Danarius turns to look back to the elf.

"I learned that an uprising had occurred in Kirkwall, and that you were believed killed in the chaos. Imagine my anger, my despair."

The words bleed from his mouth like the low rumble of a beehive.

"For a time, I was inconsolable. After so much effort spent on recovery, all hope was snuffed out in an instant. I had truly lost the epitome of my life's work. My greatest success."

He reaches his hand out once again toward Fenris' face. The elf stares daggers towards him, beginning to regain his senses. Danarius pauses a foot or so away, and dryly smiles once again.

"My fellow senators thought I was weak. They conspired against me. Threatened to upend and subvert my work. I would not have it. When the South was thrust into chaos by the opening of the Breach, the Magisterium decided it would be better to rid themselves of me altogether. I suppose it was an acceptable alternative to remaining in Minrathous in such a state. Here I was, free to study new magical phenomena that could lend to my research. But, my pet, it failed to truly satisfy me."

Danarius circles slowly around the room as he speaks, lighting several torches along the wall with a wave of his hand, and keeping a watchful eye on his captive. Slowly the room lights up.

"Which is why it was ever so surprising when the Inquisitor informed me of new arrivals. One, in particular, claiming to be the Champion of Kirkwall. I didn't dare hope. But in the end, I suppose it was fate that you should be returned to me, in one form or another."

The man moves to stand before Fenris once more. Starkly out of character, he bends down closer to the elf.

Fenris' marks glow slightly in response. He debates whether tearing out the man's throat with his bare hands would be possible before he'd be killed.

"Ah, ah," Danarius says, wagging a finger lightly. "You will recall I devised several unique enchantments over the years you served me. This is one I was sadly never able to fully test, until now." The man's finger carefully moves forward, daintily tracing the collar around Fenris' neck. "If you attempt to use your marks in any way, you will find their power turned backward and focused on yourself."

Fenris shoots another glare. "What do you hope to achieve? I will never serve y…"

Just as the last word escapes his lips, the man's hand grips his throat tightly, magic sharp between the fingers, knocking the elf's head back against the wall with a dull thud. Fenris feels his every muscle tighten and freeze in response to the collar's effects.

"Let me be absolutely clear, my pet. You belong to me and always have. You will not attempt to disobey me or I will burn your soul from the inside out with nary the motion of my hand. I will have my faithful slave restored. It will just require time."

After the words slip from his tongue, Danarius lets out a chuckle. He savors the scene for a moment more before releasing his grip. Fenris lets out a series of low coughs as he regains his breath.

"It will be so good to reacquaint ourselves."

Just as Danarius moves to leave the room, Fenris looks up to him.

"This Inquisition cannot be so twisted as to allow you to hold me here."

Danarius is in the door frame when he turns back toward the elf. He simply flashes his egregious grin once more before exiting. The door closes heavily behind him. The torches extinguish in unison and Fenris is once again thrust into darkness.

\---

Dorian is eventually returned to the cells. The guards motion for Hawke, now, and he is taken to be questioned by the Seeker. He makes no protests.

Lavellan sits in her cell, anxious. She has no way of knowing whether the Seeker believes her, or whether her words meant anything.

"How'd it go, Sparkler?," Varric asks.

"Oh, you know how it goes, Varric," he says. "Some threatening looks, a few demands for answers. It's all rather exhausting."

"What did you tell her?," Lavellan asks.

"The truth. As best as I could, really. There's no use in lying at this point."

"Let's just hope she gets what she's after before it's my turn," Varric says. "I've been interrogated enough by the Seeker for one lifetime."

"I'm not sure it did any good," Dorian replies. "I think she's the same Cassandra, underneath that dark cloud. But whether it's of any use in our present situation remains to be seen."

Their conversation is cut short by the door opening once more. The elven servant from before reappears, carrying another tray. She makes her rounds just as before to each cell. She leaves a portion in front of Hawke's in preparation for his return. Bull looks up as she places his, and smiles, but makes no movement from his bedroll.

When she makes her way around to Lavellan, she does not make eye contact as before. She places the small bowl down and swiftly moves out. The door closes heavily behind her.

"Well, we have to do _something_," says Varric. "Who knows what this Inquisitor has planned for us, and Fenris certainly isn't safe. Who knows what that twisted bastard has in store for him."

Lavellan walks over to the bars, and leans down to pick up the meal. She brings it close to the bars, cupping it in her hands. Something grazes against her fingertips.

She reaches below the bowl and pulls a small note, stuck to the bottom. It is written in a rushed script.

"Help will soon arrive. We protect our own."

Lavellan looks curiously at the note.

"Varric, what was that you were saying about luck?"


	12. Escape

"Help will arrive soon. We protect our own."

Lavellan reads the note over twice more.

"Who could've sent the message?" asks Dorian. "Only a few people, most of which are in Trevelyan's inner circle, even know who we are, let alone how we got in _here_."

"Just like Buttercup says…," Varric offers, "the little folks talk. Some of the servants have probably caught rumors and bits of private conversations here and there. It wouldn't take much to piece it together."

"The woman who brought our food seemed nervous," Bull says, stepping up to the bars, now. He towers over the square of the cell, horns neatly framing the bars. "Kept fidgeting with her hands. Knew what she had to do but didn't want to get caught. She's reporting to someone. Or a chain of someones."

"A spy inside the Inquisition?" Varric says lightly. "Well. Makes you wonder."

After a pause, Lavellan sighs again: "To be honest, it's something Leliana and I have considered and spoken of often."

"Spying servants. Secret notes." With an acidity to his voice Dorian chuckles softly. "It reminds me ever so much of home. Perhaps we aren't the ones Trevelyan should be worried about."

"Either way," Bull says, "someone has clearly taken an interest in you. I don't expect that treatment from _my_ people."

"But that raises the question again…," Dorian continues, "who could have sent this? Perhaps there is more going on behind the obvious than we realize."

"If Bull's right, and it's not the Qunari," says Varric, "then who else would call us 'their own'?"

"The Dalish perhaps?" offers Dorian. "Or… I pale to think it might be the Venatori referring to _me_. Even in this twisted world I know myself better than that."

"It's certainly not the Merchants' Guild," Varric says lightly.

Lavellan feels the bridge of her nose crimp as she frowns. "I dislike being used as a pawn. Whoever sent this, it could be they heard of how we arrived and want to learn more of the amulet. That is not an option. Everyone stay on guard."

Just as she says this, the door opens once more. In walk the two guards, shepherding Hawke. The others watch quietly as he is led back into his cell.

As soon as they are out the door once more, Lavellan softly speaks: "You've not even been gone an hour. The Seeker can't possibly be done questioning you."

"You're right," he responds, leaning his head on the bars. "We had barely gotten started, when a soldier came rushing in and told her something in whisper. I didn't catch it, but she immediately called for the guards to return me and then she rushed out."

"Well, then," says Varric, "maybe our friend got caught."

Hawke looks over curiously. "Friend?"

"Someone is passing our dear Inquisitor notes," replies Dorian quietly. "We're not sure who, just that they might intend our escape."

Hawke makes a stoic face. "Well… alright."

One of Bull's horns reaches slightly through the bars as he tilts his head to try and get a better view into Hawke's cell. "Did you learn anything new about the elf?"

"No. She wouldn't say where he was being held. Only that he was being kept separate somewhere in the keep because Trevelyan considers him a greater threat."

"She said something similar to me," Dorian offers.

"Huh," Bull chuckles quietly. "Must be some fighter if they are worried about that."

Varric sighs. "More likely they're worried he'll slip his hand through the lock and walk out of whatever cell they put him in."

"Uh… what?" asks Bull.

"It's… well, where do I start."

\---

Fenris listens near the door. He waits for anything that might give him a read of the room beyond. Every so often, he hears a small wisp of fabric, or the light metallic sound of an armor plate or weapon against the stone. Someone stands watch outside.

There's been no talking. No one has seemed to come or go in the few hours since Danarius had left. Fenris tried the door once, to no avail; not like he'd expected otherwise. It was firmly shut tight and bolted closed.

The darkness of the room is less invasive, now. His eyes have been fully adjusted for some time. The room does not appear to be designed to hold a prisoner. It is more likely it was previously used for storage. His restraints are not even chained to the floor, as he might expect. He has free roam of his small prison.

The stones of the floor are slightly uneven in several places, rising or dipping a finger's width or more. The walls are solid and far less varied. On one wall, there is a small crack between stones where a very slight, chilling breeze flows forth. This side might face outward into open air, he thinks. Not that such knowledge helps much. There are no windows and the walls seem far too thick to ever hope to break through, even if he had something strong to assist. The room is unlikely to be underground. There are no spots of dampness in the corners, and no sound of rushing water like those from Skyhold's more traditional prison he'd witnessed before.

He sits, waiting for any sign of an opportunity. In his current state, wearing only a simple tunic and pants, he has little defensive protection. Without the use of his marks, he cannot hope to both somehow force open the door and take down any guards beyond. If one were to enter the room, he might be able to take them by surprise, but it would be a very risky gamble. They are, after all, fully expecting him to be on the other side. He is at the mercy of whatever plans Danarius might have coming.

This thought breeds a deep, nauseating churn in his stomach.

He's thought where could the others be. If they were still free, they might've found him by now. Could they be imprisoned as well? Danarius did not seem worried in the slightest of being interrupted as he spoke. He had the same deep, unyielding confidence that Fenris remembered.

During the first two years he'd spent on the run, moving from the jungles of Seheron to the Wounded Coast, he'd always had the use of his marks. The slavers and solders Danarius had sent after him had known this full and well. On occasion, some did not heed it as strongly as they should have, which made them all the easier to dispatch. But most were expecting it.

The marks had always granted him an advantage. With a well-placed blow, he could negate an opponent's armor. A short focus and he could push an attacker off balance and strike. And most useful still, the marks often helped him evade his captors. Running was almost always safer than fighting them.

But even when his opponent knew of the marks, and anticipated his movements, he was still formidable with a blade and skilled at defending himself. He had, after all, been instructed by some of the best trainers money and influence could find within the Imperium. His years of hard conditioning had forged him into an effective weapon. Flaw or failure was not an option for his master's personal bodyguard.

Now, though, he feels helpless.

His mind wanders again to Hawke. The man had just returned to his life, and already it seems to be slipping away. He thinks to their earlier conversation in the courtyard.

He is replaying the words in his mind when he hears footsteps approaching the other side of the door. His mind snaps forward. The footsteps fade in slowly. They echo a little against the stone. A hallway? He moves to a position to the side of the door, just a few steps back. His wrists are still bound, but if the opportunity is just right, he may be able to land a strong blow using the iron shackles.

A few muffled words outside. He cannot catch it. It's a male voice, though.

The click of the door bolt as it slides back. Dim light floods through as the door slowly opens outward, not as bright as before.

From his angle, no-one is immediately visible. He sees the other side. It is a hallway. The far wall is visible a few feet opposite from the door frame. A torch is lit, providing the light.

Only a heartbeat later does a figure move into view, from around the side opposite the opening door. They are clearly on guard, eagle-eyed against a strike. It is the slaver who'd attacked him from the prison, eyes locking onto Fenris almost immediately.

Fenris is standing defensively, but cannot yet find the opening he'd hoped for.

"Now, now, elf, don't get any ideas or I'll have to knock you out again." The slaver grins widely and pats the pouch at his side. "I know your tricks now, and that collar helps make sure we won't get any surprises." He steps into the room slowly, keeping his eyes on Fenris. "By the way, I don't think we were properly introduced. The name's Lorias."

Fenris tightens his stance. "What is he planning?"

"Planning? Hah. Planning to leave, of course. You don't think he'd keep you here, locked up in the dark, forever?"

"What of the others?"

"You mean your friends? The Inquisitor has them locked up in those cells you were snooping around in. Thinks they're Qunari spies. 'Course, who could blame him after the mess you stirred up. Your master really couldn't have asked for a better cover."

"He is not my master."

"You might want to rethink that, if you want to avoid a lot of pain, elf."

The man shifts his gaze slightly, just outside the door. From beyond, Danarius' figure comes into view. He is wearing long, heavy robes.

"I know you know better than that, my pet."

Fenris gets the first good look at his face since waking up. Danarius' face reflects the same calm impatience that so often defined his personality. A chill runs up his back.

"Come along, Fenris. It is time to leave."

A silent defiance. Fenris does not flinch.

When he sees the elf will not move, Lorias reaches down to his belt. Fenris digs his heel in to pivot, and prepares himself to dodge a blast of the knockout powder. He may not stand a chance against Danarius in this state, but the slaver will not knock him out again.

But from his pouch, Lorias pulls what looks like small stone. He holds it firmly, his thumb grazing the surface, and on it suddenly glows a bright blue rune. At the same time, a sharp, fiery pain shoots through Fenris' body. The collar comes to life, knocking the air from his lungs and forcing him to his knees.

Fenris lets out a struggled, angry cry.

"You know very well, I despise repeating myself," Danarius says in a low growl.

The torture lasts longer than is necessary, Lorias clearly enjoying the moment. A sideward glance from the magister, and the man adjusts his grip on the stone, the rune fading. The collar goes quiet. Fenris slumps forward and heavily coughs.

"On your feet, slave."

He does not act. He must not let this man break him again.

Danarius looks to the slaver. With a flick of his finger, the rune comes to life. Fenris is once again thrown into agony. As if by reflex, he tries to activate his marks and slip through the bonds around his wrists. It makes the pain substantially worse. His flesh feels as if it's being torn from his bones. Like his entire being is being ripped apart with thousands of dull claws.

He cannot stifle a cry. His voice is dry and tired. Tears begin to fall from his eyes. As the collar stops and the pain fades, all he can focus on is how he's showing weakness. He has truly softened in his years of freedom.

Each time, he defies the command and is punished. Each time it hurts that much more. After the fifth or sixth, the effect barely wanes before Danarius's patience ends and the mage walks forward suddenly, waving his hands in a wide arc and casting a spell that lifts Fenris several inches off the ground and tosses him across the room.

The elf impacts the wall, falling back to the floor.

In an instant, Fenris' mind is flooded with memories of his servitude in Tevinter. Years of punishment. Pain inflicted for a misunderstanding or the slight disobeying of a command, his master unleashing his wrath for no reason other than to relieve the man's sadistic desires.

Every time, he would wonder to himself: "Why did I fail my master?" Lying awake afterward, in his bedroll in the slave quarters, he would swear to do better.

Danarius leans down over him slowly. His lips are inches from the elf's ear as he whispers: "Your resolve is as strong as ever, my pet. It's what drew my attention in the first place. You would never quit. You would keep fighting. Such a shame it is wasted like this."

He braces for the collar to come to life once more. But Fenris knows his strength is gone. He cannot keep this up. Eventually he will give in, or just pass out from the pain and be carried out. Danarius will keep this up for as long as he wishes. Either way, there's no escape.

Hawke's face flashes in his mind. Fenris believes he will never see the man again.

Danarius stands tall, and stares down at the elf lying at his feet. Lorias looks ready to activate the collar once more, but the magister gestures in pause.

A few short, ragged breaths come and pass. Fenris' hand slides along the stones, slowly gaining strength enough to push upward to his knees. It takes considerable effort, but he is finally able to make it to his feet. His balance threatens to waver, but his legs hold. His knees are shaking.

Behind the veil of anger, impatience, and pride, Danarius almost looks impressed.

Fenris gazes up toward the man who had caused him so much pain. Deep green eyes focus on dark robes accented with red and silver trim. The elf's white hair is matted with sweat, and dust from the floor sticks to one side of his face. His eyes are red and swollen.

His lips quivers at the edge, nearly imperceptible. Finally, his head slides downward in submission.

Either way, there's no escape.

Danarius smiles softly. "That's better. Now, come along. There is much ahead to face."

Either way, right here, there's no chance for escape. But if he can stay alive… stay _himself_, there might be hope some day again. Hope to see that face again.

Without further resistance, Fenris follows as his master turns and confidently walks from the room and down the short stone hallway.

He walks with pained steps, exerting considerable effort to stay in stride. His head remains down, watching his master's robes sway with each step. Lorias follows not far behind.

His eyes are not prepared for the bright burst of light.

\---

There is a loud sound somewhere above. It is distant. A quick, low rumble.

"What… what was that?" asks Dorian.

"An explosion." Bull affirms.

Not long after the loud sound, a commotion is heard outside the cells. Someone hurriedly speaking.

Lavellan and the others look up curiously. Hawke looks to her with a questioning glance, and with silent understanding of his words, they prepare for the worst.

A loud thud next to the door, followed shortly thereafter by another. Then, quiet.

"Wh—"

The door opens just as Varric begins to speak.

Through it walks an elven woman. The servant from before. She rushes to Lavellan's cell. From her thin cloak, the woman pulls a skeleton key. She quickly unlocks the cell.

"You must come with me. All of you. While there is time."

Lavellan steps out and looks over the woman. "What's going on? Who are you?"

"I was told to get you out. That's all I know. There's a cart in the courtyard, just past the gates. Your things are already in it," she explains as she circles the room, unlocking each cell.

The others step out to stand in the middle of the room. From the doorway rushes in another figure. An elven man. Another servant, from the look of it. He is carrying a large pile of clothes.

The woman walks toward the door, stopping to turn and look at them. "Quickly! We haven't much time. Put these on." She gestures with her hand toward the pile. They are cloaks.

Lavellan walks over, and the woman grabs a cloak from the top and hands it to her.

Dorian nearly laughs. "We're just supposed to walk out of the fortress? What about the guards? And what about Bull? They are bound to notice a Qunari, no matter how large of a cloak he's wearing."

"It's alright. The guards around the front gates are distracted. There's been an explosion in the main hall. It will cause enough panic to allow you to slip out."

"And are you the one that caused it?" asks Bull.

The woman only replies an unfocused "no". She is distracted, distributing the rest of the cloaks out. The man looks as nervous as she does. His hands are visibly shaking when the last one is lifted off and given to Varric.

"Well… it's our best option so far," says Lavellan. "Let's go."

The group quickly makes their way out of the room. As they pass through the door, they see the two guards slumped to each side of the door.

Lavellan shoots the pair a concerned look.

"Don't worry, they'll be fine," the woman says. Now go, we have to hurry."

As they reach the top of the stairs, and peer out into the courtyard, they notice two things: The pitch black of night, broken only by the lights of the main keep, and smoke rising from the main doors. Several guards are yelling commands into the darkness, rushing in and leading people away from the building.

They make their way swiftly. No-one stops them, or even gives them a second glance. The few guards on patrol are clearly focused on securing the possible threat in the keep. A templar rushes from the tavern and past them, wearing haphazardly-attached armor. He looks as though he'd spent the night drinking and was trying to ascertain the situation.

Once to the main gates of the fortress, they slip inside. A covered cart pulled by two horses sits inside. Two more guards are slumped on the side wall. The woman quickly jumps into the front seat and pulls the reins from where they are tied. "Quickly, get in. We must be down the mountain and into the valley before they realize."

The male servant stands near the inner gate, watching for other guards.

"Wait. Where's Fenris?," Hawke asks the woman. "I am not leaving without him."

"What?"

"Fenris. An elf. He was taken and held separately."

"Oh," she says, looking down. "He's… not here."

"What? What do you mean? Where is he?," Hawke demands.

\---

Fenris follows as his master turns and confidently walks from the room and down the short stone hallway.

He walks with pained steps, exerting considerable effort to stay in stride. His head remains down, watching his master's robes sway with each step. Lorias follows not far behind.

His eyes are not prepared for the bright burst of light.

As Danarius opens the heavy door, it floods in, eclipsing the torches.

They step through to the outside. The sun shines warmly overhead. But it is not familiar. There is no wall and no ramparts circling them. There's no Inquisition soldiers. Only trees.

A small road is not far, with a pair of horse and carriage waiting.

All at once, Fenris realizes. He is not in Skyhold. He never was. He'd awakened somewhere else. The mountains are visible far above the tree line. Are they even the Frostbacks?

A bird can be heard happily chirping from a tree somewhere nearby.

How long was he unconscious?

Danarius looks back to the elf's searching eyes. "See, my pet. We're already on our way. By nightfall, we'll be on a ship bound for home."

The three move to the carriage, and Lorias opens the door to allow the magister to step inside and sit. Danarius gestures after him and points.

Fenris steps in, his legs painfully protesting. Just beside the seat Danarius has taken, Fenris falls to sit on his heels, then sits back onto to the floor of the carriage.

A short time later, the carriage rocks slightly as Lorias takes the driver's seat. A jerk as the horses set off, pulling the carriage down the small road.

Every now and then, it rocks slightly as the wheels slip into small ruts in the dirt. Strands of white hair fall forward on either side of Fenris' face, masking his shame.

From the the pocket of his robes, Danarius pulls a small item. He holds it up to the light spilling in through the carriage's windows, looking at the swirls and refractions of light in green crystal. The amulet's string falls downward to tiredly hang from the mage's hand.

"With this, and a bit more research, I'll be ready for those mud-witted magisters who dared to oppose me. I'll have my position and power restored. Everything will be as it should."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been pretty mean to Fenris this chapter. I'm really sorry. For everything that Danarius is behind the monologuing pride, he is a man who gets what he wants. I wanted to emphasize that no matter how much Fenris wants to resist and fight, he knows he has few options for now. Just as it was when he was in Tevinter, he must wait and hope to find the right moment.


	13. Bargain

Everyone is on edge.

It is difficult for Hawke to think as the wagon makes its way down the mountain path. The elven woman who'd helped them make their escape had explained very little when they'd departed Skyhold.

Apparently, after they'd been imprisoned Trevelyan himself had ordered Fenris quartered separately from the others. At some point the next day both the elf and Danarius had disappeared. The amulet was also missing.

"It's a fair bet Danarius took it, right?" asks Varric as the cart bumps over a short rock. Bianca's stock raps against the floorboard near his foot in response.

"If he does indeed have it…," Dorian starts, "and he's run off, we're in even deeper shit than we thought. Can this possibly get any worse?"

Lavellan glares toward him. "Dorian."

The mage suddenly realizes how his words must sound. "Oh, Hawke. I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"It's… fine. We'll find him," Hawke replies. "We have to." His voice is tired.

Varric looks toward him. He hasn't seen the mage look this rattled since that last day in Kirkwall.

Suddenly, the woman's hand slips through the cart's canvas from the front. They all go quiet.

Their weapons, save Bianca, are hidden beneath where they sit. Hidden and completely unavailable if they were suddenly exposed. Not that it would matter.

There are sounds of a few soldiers beyond, but it is not chaotic here like it was in the courtyard. There's no shouting, no hurried rush.

As she had explained as they left, the cart had been scheduled to depart now. A merchant leaving to continue business elsewhere, nothing more.

As the cart rolls on, they can see nothing outside. The darkness of night obscures what little they could see out of the covered cart. Every now and then, the light of a fire can be seen as a bright silhouette against the canvas wall. So far, everything seems fine. Voices are becoming more distant.

Lavellan realizes she is holding her breath. She exhales slowly, trying to remain steady. Bull is sitting slumped forward, his hands resting against his knees.

The lights begins to disappear more and more, until it's just darkness.

Everyone stays quiet.

Just as things seem calm, someone can be heard shouting from behind them.

The cart begins to slow to a stop. Outside, boots can be heard landing in the dirt and light snow. Lavellan's eyes rise to meet Varric's. His hand is reflexively pointed to reach for Bianca.

The voice can be heard just outside the cart, now. It's moved up near the driver. She can be heard responding. The soldier asks for her information once more. She tells him: A merchant wagon bound for Redcliffe. He asks her a few more short questions. What is her cargo? Is she alone?

Hawke sits nervously. His face feels hot, and his hands are sweating. He will not be taken back there. He will find Fenris even if it means fighting his way out of this valley.

She replies succinctly. Not enough to be off-putting. Finally, after a pause, he wishes her a good journey. Bootsteps as the soldier moves backward along the wagon.

Dorian prepares for the back flap to fly open, and for them all to be found out. His right hand is gripping the trim of his robes tightly.

The silhouette of light begins to fade. A moment later, the cart jerks into motion as the horses move forward.

It is a long time before anyone speaks again.

\---

Early the next morning the finally come to a stop.

No-one has slept. Too much adrenaline and too little room to spare. Every so often, someone would attempt to start a conversation, try to plan, but each time it would fall apart. They had too little information and no idea what to do next.

Hawke had tried once or twice to ask the woman for more information, but she had brushed him off. She said she didn't know, but they were heading somewhere where they might find out.

As the cart comes to a stop, they all remain still in anticipation for what might come next.

Soon after, the back flap of the cart opens. The woman scans the tired faces, and motions for them to come out. "We're here, Serahs"

One by one, they stand and step out of the cart. Varric lands with an ungraceful thud first, followed just after by Hawke, who nearly loses his balance, his legs jelly from sitting in the same position so long.

Dorian helps Lavellan down, and Bull steps out last, his left horn catching on the canvas a little. He shakes it free with a grunt.

The sun is warm far in the Eastern sky. They have emerged from the deep switchbacks and curves between the peaks of the Frostback Mountains into the rolling hills that move toward Lake Calenhad.

They are… in the middle of nowhere.

"This is as far as I take you," the woman says.

"You're leaving?," Lavellan replies.

"Yes," she says. "It's what I was told to do."

"Who told you to free us?" Dorian inquires, while brushing down his robes. The fine cloth has wrinkled substantially.

"A… friend. That's all I may say."

Varric finishes fishing Bianca from the back of the cart, and is checking the crossbow over in the light. "This has all been very vague. Where are we supposed to go from here? You said we might get some more information."

"Yes," interjects Hawke. "About Fenris. And where that bastard has taken him."

"We are about an hour's walk to Herrier," she says, looking just as tired as the rest of them. "It's a small village along the Imperial Highway. When you arrive there, you're to go to the tavern. Someone will be waiting to meet you."

"Just… someone?" Varric replies. "I don't suppose we're going to get much more, right?"

"I'm very sorry. I was only told what you now know. Just to get you out, deliver you here, and then take the cart on to Redcliffe."

"Wait, we have to walk there?," adds Dorian.

"Cheer up, Sparkler. At least we aren't in prison anymore." Varric smiles as he swings Bianca around his back.

Lavellan rubs her temples. "Very well. Everyone, gather your belongings from the cart. We need to set out. Danarius can't have more than half a day's lead on us. If we are to find out where he's gone, we have to push forward."

The woman turns to move up to the driver's seat once more. She begins checking the horses. Lavellan walks toward her as the group moves to ready themselves.

"One more thing. You never told us your name. Are we allowed to know that?"

The woman looks back to her, her face reddening. "I'm sorry, how rude of me. My name is Mera."

"Do you do this sort of thing often? Sneaking out prisoners, I mean?"

"No, not at all," she says, looking down. "I used to be a merchant, in the Marches, back before the Breach. I joined the Inquisition so I could help. But now, with things to the North the way they are, I'm…"

"…still trying to help." Lavellan guesses.

Mera nods, and smiles, her tired eyes hiding a bit of sadness.

Lavellan thanks her once more, wishes her well, and rejoins her companions.

Bull is busy pulling items from the cart, handing them to the others. The last to come out are Fenris' armor and greatsword. He hands them to Hawke, seemingly understanding their importance.

Hawke sets the sword and plates down gently on the ground nearby, but holds the leathers in his hands, eyes locked.

The others move off to the side of the road, and begin reassembling themselves.

"So, do you intend to go with us?" Varric asks toward Bull.

"I think so," he replies. "I've little where else to go on my own right now. We're still in the middle of Ferelden, after all. I can pass as a Tal-Vashoth mercenary, but it'll be better if I'm with a group."

"If you've forgotten, we fulfilled your bargain," the rogue jests. "We got you out. Now what about that mirror?"

"Give me a break, I'll hold up my end. Let's get your friend, first."

"We would welcome your assistance," Lavellan adds, stepping over.

Bull seems to sense the hesitation in her voice.

"Hey, I get it. I'm not the guy you know. I wouldn't trust my intentions either. I'm comfortable with that arrangement if you are."

"I think that works fine," she replies, with a bit more warmth in her voice.

Dorian looks to the Qunari as he stands nearby. It is not the man he knows so well… the man he cares so much for, but he cannot help but be drawn to him. He wants to talk, but can't find the words.

What does one even say in such a situation? "Good to meet you, and just so we're clear, in another life you and I are lovers."

Dorian sighs and looks toward the hills ahead of them. Grasses sway in the light breeze.

How do you talk to someone who means so much, when they've never met you?

No. Now is not the time. It may never be the time. That Iron Bull is still back home, in their Skyhold. Dorian will make it back. Somehow.

It may just take some time.

Varric, now noticing Hawke's absence, returns to the cart and stands beside his friend.

Hawke is staring intently, running his fingers across the fraying fabric again.

His dear friend, whom he has stood by through countless heartbreaks. "Hawke…", he starts. "We'll find him."

"Are you sure?," he replies. "I… I told myself the same thing when mother…"

Varric once again himself unsure of what to say. In a short amount of time, he's had to console two friends who believed they've lost the other forever.

He considers for a while.

"If anyone could survive this nightmare, and get back safe, it's him. You know that."

Hawke nods, without raising his head. "But… he's alone. I should be with him."

"Do you remember, back in Kirkwall, when Danarius finally showed up and Fenris faced him down? Do you remember what you felt when he looked that bastard in the eye and yelled 'You're no longer my master!'"

Varric's impression of Fenris' gravel is mediocre, at best.

"Yes, I do," he responds, his voice tight. "I was happy. And terrified. And really damn proud."

"Because he stood as his own man. Even though it was incredibly hard on him, he faced his demon down. And he was stronger because of it. He's always been that strong, and always will be. He'll be alright."

Hawke feels the weathered bronze embroidery along the edges of the leathers under his fingertips, winding in thin patterns. Such a delicate detail on a warrior's armor, worn through years of fighting.

Finally, he nods once more, and breathes in heavily. A strong exhale, and he looks up. "Then we best not keep him waiting."

Varric pats his hand across his friend's back, and then heads off to join the others. Hawke gathers the rest of Fenris' belongings, wraps them in a cloth from the cart, and ties them in a makeshift knapsack. He picks up the greatsword and moves to join Varric.

Everyone appears to have readied themselves, except the Iron Bull, who had little to prepare in the first place. The warrior stands casually, calmly alongside the other. Lavellan has apparently said something funny, and he laughs heartedly.

Hawke considers for a moment, before moving over.

"You… will need a weapon," he says, holding out the sword.

Bull looks him and the sword over. "You sure?"

"Yes. I just might need it back later."

The warrior nods and smiles, the patch over his left eye glinting in the morning sun. "I'll take good care of it."

\---

Fenris feels ashamed.

He is better than this. Stronger than this. He should not have given in so easily.

He would, however, prefer this nightmare to being knocked unconscious only to wake up somewhere else once again. At least in this state, he has some semblance of reality.

In this despicable state, sitting on the floor of a carriage adjacent to a monster.

They have been traveling for hours.

Danarius has for most of the time been examining the amulet, observing intricate patterns of light refracting through its semi-glassy surface.

Fenris tries his best not to watch, but every now and then his eyes drift upward to catch a glimpse.

A warm amber spell sits idly in the mage's hand, tendrils of magic spinning upward around the stone. The magic seems so delicate.

"What do you intend to do with me?"

His voice is dry and cracked.

The man does not turn his head, nor drop his focus. His fingers wriggle ever so slightly as the spell shifts into a crisp green.

A moment or two of silence passes, and Fenris assumes he will receive no answer. Just after, however, the spell fades. Danarius' hand remains briefly, before calmly coming to rest on his knee.

"Such a curious thing, this. It's unlike any magic I've studied. Its foundations are sound and revealing, but the final formulae are… foreign. Perhaps ancient. Unusable in its current form. But clearly with great potential."

Fenris turns his head back to stare at the now-fraying hem of his tunic. What does he hope to accomplish? There is little hope of him making an escape in this state, with this damned collar able to stop him cold with only a wave of a finger.

"I intend to return us to Tevinter and begin my work anew. I intend to restore the serenity I once had. That which your selfishness took from me."

Fenris feels numb. His anger has long boiled into a dry edge. He slips the fabric between two fingers and pulls at a loose thread. His selfishness. For a desire of freedom.

If he were to move swiftly… no. Without the use of his marks he could not strike with enough force to prevent a counter. But with a weapon… any weapon. A nail pulled from the floorboard. But none are exposed. No ornate decorations that could be sheered off into a sharp point. The carriage is simple wood.

"The first step is recovering my devoted pet."

A tight knot in his stomach now. It is nothing he would not expect to hear, but the presence of the words in the air drives to his core all the same.

"I will never willingly play that part again," the elf says, not looking up.

A hand rises. Fenris braces himself for a strike across his face. Punishment for speaking up at all.

But the hand moves gracefully toward him. It drops down and fingers stroke gently through his hair. Fenris feels his skin prickle with disgust.

"There was a time… when you had affection for me."

With a twist of his fingers, a cold blue spell quickly forms, and the collar around Fenris' neck turns icy. He grabs ahold of the collar and tugs it away, but it makes no difference. It sits lazily around his neck, merely the nexus for the spell's effect. Not pain, per se, but a reminder.

From beside him he hears Danarius' tone darken into its more natural form: "Your will is of no consequence. I molded you into an ideal slave before. I will do so again. You have been poisoned… sullied by the desires of others. Those who would dare wield what I created for themselves. I must cleanse that which has tainted you all these years."

The icy chill is released. The collar dims, runes on its surface fading. Fenris catches his breath, and his heartbeat calms. He looks up to see Danarius staring out the far window, absentmindedly rolling the amulet in his fingers.

That is his plan, then. To strip Fenris of any defiance. He had suspected as much, honestly. A fate not unlike one delivered by the Qunari, employing qamek poison onto those who continually refuse submission under the Qun. In this case, however, it will be through blood magic, or some other horrific means.

Fenris sits in silence with this thought for a time. Furious that he allowed himself into this position. Terrified that he may not be able to avoid it. Wishing he could dive from the carriage and run. Run just as he had years before, pushing past the protests of his body's exhaustion for fear of slavers hot on his tail.

He would not make it three yards from the carriage.

\---

The walk into town is easy. The late autumn air is cool but comfortable, and the sun is warm and inviting.

Hawke, Lavellan, and Varric walk along the small dirt paths criss-crossing between houses and shops, and nobody seems to consider them. Hawke and Lavellan have disguised their staves as best as they can under the circumstances. Hawke has had many, many years experience doing so, after all.

They'd decided it best Bull remain outside of town. There were bound to be Inquisition agents nearby, and the group would rather keep contact to a minimum as word inevitably spread of their escape. Dorian had offered to remain behind as well. "Better for there to be fewer faces to recall, perhaps?," he'd said.

And so they now move through this small villiage. Herrier: a day's travel south from the Waking Sea, on the route heading along the western side of Lake Calenhad. Well travelled by pretty much anyone moving goods from Orlais, or from the ports in the North of Ferelden. Made even moreso since the Inquisition's formation had revitalized trade routes through the mountains. The town consists mainly of hunters, merchants, and farmers. Lavellan has stopped once or twice enroute to Redcliffe.

The tavern sits near the center; it's small, two floors, and less than half the size of Skyhold's. Just outside, two carts pass by carrying goods along the main road. A crier, a young human girl, shouts from a nearby corner, advertising the day's wares at a local store.

As Hawke pulls the oaken door open, he briefly imagines the potential ambush on the other side. They'd considered this, of course, watching the tavern for a bit, paying attention to a few folks coming and going. Things had seemed perfectly normal.

Who would plan an ambush during breakfast?

As the door closes behind them, it's immediately apparent how much quieter it is within. The shouts and sounds of the outside are muffled to nearly nothing.

There are only three other people inside. A human man tends the tavern on the far left, its heavy wooden bar sitting before him. Two patrons are here, seated far from each other; One is on the extreme right of the room, turned away, wearing a thick hood; The other is a dwarven woman who sits at the bar.

"Well… this looks promising," states Lavellan, dryly.

The trio walk toward the bar, attempting to gauge the scene. The bartender looks them over carefully.

As Lavellan approaches, the man simply looks to her without a word and motions at the far side of the room.

She glances to the hooded figure in the corner. Looking to her companions, she shrugs lightly and begins tepidly walking over.

"Is it just me," Varric whispers, "or is this straight out of Hard in Hightown?"

The question goes unanswered.

As they reach the table, the figure is still facing the corner. They are completely masked by a dark green cloak, head down, attention toward a leather-bound book, a tankard of ale sitting on the table before them.

Lavellan, suddenly making a connection, quickly sits.

"I should have known you'd have something to do with this," she says.

The figure pulls a ribbon bookmark into place, shuts the book, and sets it down. Their head rises as strands of stark red hair dangle from under the cloak.

"It took you long enough to arrive," Leliana says with a warm coyness in her voice. "I'd almost considered you had ventured off somewhere else."

Varric smiles a toothy grin. "Red. You're here! Wait… so that whole jailbreak. That was your doing?"

"I suppose you could say that. Where are the rest of you?"

Hawke looks around the near-empty bar once more before answering. "They thought it best to remain outside of town, to lessen the chances of being spotted."

"A wise precaution."

"I suppose we owe you thanks," says Lavellan, trying to gauge the woman's motives. "Things were looking hopeless for a moment, but then events fell into place so perfectly. In retrospect, it makes it seem so easy."

"There was quite a bit involved," Leliana replies, pushing aside a strand of hair from her face. "Finding an agent who could pass as a servant, get in, and get you out without harming anyone. Setting a diversion. And of course, a great deal of effort was spent ensuring that any involvement would not be traced back to us."

"…Us?," asks Lavellan.

"Inquisitor…," Hawke manages to say as the trio turns, looking as a figure descends the stairs.

"Precisely," offers Trevelyan, coming into the light.

He stands for a moment, and looks to Leliana. She nods, and he moves closer.

"Charter confirmed a while ago," he says, "the others are outside the town, just talking," he says to her.

He looks to the others, who are now on guard.

Varric genuinely looks stunned. "That… is not the twist I was expecting. Maybe I'm losing my touch."

"You'll have to forgive the theatrics," he says, stepping up to the table. "I had to ensure we could have this meeting privately, you see." He takes a seat next to Leliana, and motions for the others to sit, as well.

Hawke and Varric exchange glances, finally deciding to do so.

Lavellan feels the palms of her hands begin to sweat. She places them on her knees, and attempts to quell her anger. "So… you planned this all along, then."

"Yes and no."

"Yes and no?" she says, shifting her gaze between them. "So, what now? You drag us back to prison?"

"No, of course not. Not after all the trouble we went through to get you out. As far as any witnesses are concerned, you escaped Skyhold through the assistance of a group of Qunari sympathizers."

"You _wanted_ us to be seen as spies?," Hawke asks, voice tense. "Even though it's clear now you know we aren't."

"Yes," Trevelyan says, motioning for the barkeep. "You see, when your associate was caught, I truly did believe you were infiltrators. But the more I thought about it, the less sense it made. Your story, however unlikely, still fit."

"Then you decided… what… to test us?," Lavellan asks.

"No, far from it. How best shall I explain?," Treveylan says, looking at Lavellan. The curls of his beard and mustache glint slightly in the bright morning light coming in through a nearby window. "You are my counterpart. You understand the great importance that is put on maintaining appearances, ceremony, alliances. Even the most menial slight can…," he pauses as the barkeep brings a tray of ales over for them all. He waits a moment for the man to move away, and resumes. "Even the most menial slight can upset the ones we call friends."

Her face is blank for a moment, watching him closely. But then, Lavellan closes her eyes and grits her teeth. "Danarius. This is all about Tevinter."

"Yes, precisely," he says. "You see… I've known since he first arrived that the Magister had greater ambitions than just service to our alliance. Until recently, it had merely been a passing consideration. The man had no real opportunity to act on it. His use to me far outweighed his intentions. But then you arrived."

"…and we brought with us something that he'd be interested in," Varric adds.

"Exactly," he says, smiling and gesturing widely with his hands. "I knew it from the moment we realized what your amulet truly was that he would do anything to acquire it. I knew he would betray me in an instant. So, I began preparing. And then, he did. I did not, however, expect him to actually make it out of the keep. We were all greatly impressed that he did, and with nary a trace. You should have seen Seeker Pentaghast's face."

A grin sits beneath the beard. Lavellan is not as gleeful.

"So why all this," asks Varric. "Why not just track him down? Not that… you know… we don't appreciate not being locked up."

"Well, that is where appearances comes in."

Lavellan finally lets her grasp loosen on her leggings. "Tevinter wouldn't be very happy if you took one of their Magisters prisoner, no matter what he might've done. I would have been faced with something similar when we apprehended Alexius, if not for his ties to the Venatori. But Danarius isn't Venatori."

"In the wake of Corypheus' defeat," Leliana says, "the Inquisition has amassed incredible influence. The Imperium, for all their thankful attitude on the surface, is not about to allow a Southern military force to threaten its power in the North, especially in the middle of a war that is rapidly shifting out of their favor."

"Short of reopening the Breach," Trevelyan continues, "we felt that no matter the misstep, if we took Danarius back to Skyhold, Tevinter could use it as leverage to sway support for a fear the other nations' are already seeing: that the Inquisition is becoming too powerful. We couldn't take that risk, not in the delicate position we now sit. We are the only force truly prepared for the Qunari should they advance southward from the Free Marches into Ferelden."

"As unfortunate as it was," Leliana interjects, "when Danarius escaped and took your companion with him, we realized it presented the perfect opportunity."

Varric scoffs. "If your captured Qunari spies were somehow able to escape custody, and track Danarius down, whatever happened to him could be blamed on the Qunari."

"Yes," Trevelyan says. "The Imperium would be forced to retaliate, and it would only add fire against Qunari forces along the border in the Free Marches. They would turn their attention back to the Imperium."

"You bastard," Hawke angrily says under his breath, standing up. "You set all of this up, let us escape, and now intend use us as pawns in your war?"

Lavellan and Varric are inclined to agree.

"Now, now, calm down, Serah. You were never in any real danger. We even allowed the Qunari to escape with you, to help fortify the illusion."

"No, we weren't in danger. But you both seem perfectly content dealing with people's lives. While you both gave a good show for the diplomats, that bastard was getting further and further away with Fenris," Hawke is nearly shouting. "So, what now? Can you even tell us where he is?"

"Yes," answers Leliana. "My agents were able to determine his location fairly quickly once he was traveling through Ferelden. They've kept at a distance, but he is currently to the North, heading toward the Waking Sea. He's made a stop at an abandoned watchpoint a short distance off the main road. We can provide you horses and supplies for the journey."

"Okay," start Lavellan, "let me get all of this straight. You want us to catch up to Danarius, and deal with him for you? What then?"

"Well, after that we can speak further," says Trevelyan. "You will have fulfilled a great service to myself and the Inquisition, even if no-one can ever know the truth. We'll announce that the Qunari spies were killed in a battle with the Magister, but managed to defeat him all the same, and afterword we should be able to help you on your quest to return home."

"…and what of the Iron Bull?"

"As I said, we allowed the Qunari to escape alongside you to reinforce the illusion. Should events play in our favor, we hope he would be willing to… assist further. If not, of course, we could always offer him our hospitality once again."

"And if Danarius actually _does_ manage to make it back to Tevinter? What, then?," Varric asks tensly.

"Well… let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Lavellan looks to her two companions. Both look unsatisfied and apprehensive.

"I suppose," she says, "that we have little choice.

\---

Another hour passes, maybe more. Danarius has resumed his quiet examination of the amulet. Fenris sits, near motionless, unwilling to allow the man any satisfaction from his discomfort.

The trees outside begin to thin, more rays of light slipping in through the small carriage window. More bits of blue sky are visible above.

Fenris's mind drifts, and in the threads he suddenly remembers a detail, small and insignificant, from years before. From when he faced Danarius in Kirkwall. The real Danarius, not this doppleganger. When the man had set a trap, and Fenris had willingly sprung it with Hawke at his side.

On that day, while the man assessed the situation, Danarius had spoken to Hawke. As equals, even if it had been only a thin veneer. Danarius had offered a great reward if the Champion would turn him over willing. He had tried to… bargain with him.

Hawke had flat out refused, of course. Such betrayal wasn't even in the realm of consideration. At the time, Fenris had felt no mistrust while the question hung in the air. He knew the kind of man Hawke was.

But… the moment now replays in his mind again and again. What… if Hawke had agreed? What if his travels with the mage all those years had been a facade, only meant to keep the elf at arm's length long enough for him to become useful.

The thought is abhorrent.

"Those who would dare wield what I created for themselves." That's what Danarius had said just a short time earlier.

If Hawke had accepted… in complete sincerity, what then? Would Fenris have turned on Hawke and fought them both? Tried to run? Would the others who'd been there… Varric, Isabella… have defended him and been killed in the chaos? Or would they have deferred to Hawke's decision? If the abomination had been there, he knows what that answer would be.

Fenris feels the knot in his gut tighten. Would he… have gone willingly? Before that day, when he'd felt the life drain from Danarius' eyes in his own hand, he had not been nearly as certain that his life as a free man was genuine. Would such a betrayal have destroyed whatever hope he'd had alive? Any hope that his freedom had worth?

This train of thought makes him even angrier. Why must his mind play with these doubts?

His presence here, his captivity, makes vile reminders of times long past. When his eyes were still closed, and he thought he was happy. Then, when he was on the run and thought he'd never be happy again.

His eyes look back out the window, attempting to focus his attention on something else. Anything else.

Night threatens to fall. They must be approaching the Waking Sea, then.


	14. Faith

It is fully dark as the carriage begins to slow. Bumps of the road settle out until only subtle rattle can be felt beneath its wheels. Cobblestones, perhaps. Fenris thinks he can taste salt in the air; They must be near the coast. Outside, he can hear nothing else except a slight wind rushing through the trees.

This entire endeavor: traversing Thedas, finding Hawke, surviving the Fade, only to end up in this forsaken reflection in the hands of his former master once more. Why did it come to this? The magic went bad. It always does.

Danarius has said nothing more to him, neither command nor provocation. Deep down, Fenris expected to be tormented further, verbally or physically. He would almost welcome it, if only to feel as though he was fighting back at this… purgatory. But the man has sat quietly studying a book, turning to its attention as soon as the amulet had seemingly lost his immediate interest. The book's leather-bound pages are old. Not ancient, but having still witnessed wear and use over many years.

Fenris recognized it, of course, as soon as Danarius had pulled it from his satchel. The magister had carried it for as long as Fenris could remember. It is his personal journal, pieced together from countless pages and loose notes, and detailing the most important of the mage's efforts throughout his studies. On more than one occasion the book had been handed to Fenris for safeguard, often with his master's other belongings, while the latter attended to business. It rarely left the man's sight.

Fenris had seen inside of it only once, in the halls of the Magisterium, very much by accident. On that day, he'd been commanded to fetch the book for Danarius after the latter had left it in his research chambers. On his way back, while moving down a corridor, a slave of another magister had bumped into him when the two crossed paths. As the book fell to the floor it had made a hearty "thunk", which echoed softly along the vast marble.

Fenris had taken guard, concerned the rival slave sought to swipe a page from the book in the moment or catch a glance of its contents to report back to his master; He was ever ready to defend his master's property. But it was soon apparent that it was merely a mistake. The boy had apologized profusely, bowing his head deep and looking terrified, before quickly scurrying off.

As Fenris reached down to collect it, some loose pages had slid from their place, and he'd seen upon them many complex drawings. Circles and lines, and many, many words written in a tight script that he could not hope to understand. He's quickly slipped the fallen sheets back into place as best he could and hurried back to his master's side.

In the years since, he'd occasionally wondered if that book had contained the exact details of what had been done to him. The magics that had been used to bind lyrium within his skin, to sew powers of the Fade through his soul, all laid bare within its pages.

After facing Danarius in Kirkwall, he'd left the Hanged Man quickly, without even considering that it might be present on the man's corpse. It had not even crossed his mind to look.

He wishes now that he could burn it.

But instead, for the past few hours, he's sat here on the floor of the carriage and thought long about how best to prepare for an escape. If and when he could find the right opening. The right misstep. He does not know where Hawke and the others are. If they are even still alive. As much as it pains him, he is on his own and must act as such.

If he could manage to take out the slaver, Lorias, he might have a chance of snatching the stone which controls the enchantment in his collar. Even so, he'd then have Danarius to contend with, any any others they might have ready in waiting for their arrival. But without neutralizing the collar there might as well be dozens.

If the moment does present itself, he will have but one chance. He must take it wisely. Attempt so prematurely and it would most likely result in even more pain than he'd faced earlier, or worse: being knocked unconscious by the slaver's powders. If it came to that, he'd have no chance at all. He'd wake far too late and find himself chained to a wall, with Danarius performing yet another unholy blood magic ritual to reform him into an obedient slave once more.

His blood chills. He will not allow that to happen. He wonders again why they'd allowed him to awaken in the first place.

His thoughts are interrupted as the carriage door slides open. Lorias leans ever-so-slightly inward and looks up toward Danarius. The magister lifts his gaze from the book, closes it, and carefully tucks it back into his satchel in one fluid motion.

"We're here, my lord."

"Good," he says, standing from his seat. "Come, Fenris."

Danarius steps from the carriage without even a glance backward. The man clearly feels great confidence that the elf has no power to strike at him.

Against his better judgement, Fenris moves out and steps down to the stone street below. His legs protest, now yielding to the painful punishment of earlier defiance and several hours on the carriage's hard wooden floor. Lorias smirks, one shoulder propped against the carriage wall, as the elf tries to straighten up. Silent and taunting, the slaver motions for him to follow as he begins walking behind the magister. Fenris greatly wishes he could rip the smile from the man's face.

He stands on a long street on the crest of a hill, overlooking a few simple buildings set in-between large gnarled trees. It's small and utterly quiet. A short distance behind it all lies a harbor. Fenris can just make out the tops of sails peeking through the trees. In the air is a light, constant mist which sprays down as the wind blows in from the sea.

Danarius has raised the hood of his robes, the sharp features of Tevinter fashion pointed upward like blades.

It takes every ounce of self-control Fenris has left to step forward. Defiance here would serve no purpose.

But on a ship… in the middle of the Waking Sea… there will be far fewer routes of escape. If he struck now… pushed into Lorias, dropped him to the ground… could he get the upper hand? He believes the stone is in the slaver's belt pouch. Prevent him from getting at it at all, and maybe he could take away that advantage. But Danarius is just ahead of them both. In an instant the mage would be upon him. It would be suicide.

He continues walking.

Lorias looks back every few moments with another smirk as if only to remind Fenris of his continued condition. Each time adds to the elf's anger. It sets him on edge. He knows well that's exactly what the man wants. He wants Fenris to be angry, to slip up. He wants an excuse for Danarius to strike at him for stepping out of line. He is petty and vindictive. He is just like Hadriana.

They move quickly along the street as it winds down the hill, passing several dark buildings as they descend. What look to be warehouses. No-one is around. No lights, no sounds of people. It all looks abandoned.

As they approach the harbor, a tall figure steps from the shadows, emerging from the last in the line of warehouses. Three others follow just behind. They are all wearing long cloaks, sheltering them from the cold weather. Lorias moves up to speak.

"I trust everything is in order?"

The leader reaches up, and lowers their hood. It is an older human woman.

"Yes. The ship is ready to depart. I have a crew of nine, including myself, at your service," she says, voice heavily with a thick Rivaini accent. "I've received word that a Qunari dreadnought was spotted off the Northern coast earlier today. We will be taking extra precautions to ensure we are not discovered."

"Very well. Magister Danarius," Lorias turns, "may I present Captain Leonor of the Felicisima Armada."

Leonor nods toward Danarius, long raven-dark hair pulled back neatly.

"A pleasure," Danarius frosts. The magister looks to have very little patience for such trivialities at this particular moment.

"As you requested," Lorias continues, "I sent word ahead for a ship able to depart quickly, and without drawing unnecessary attention. The Captain and I have some history, and she has kindly offered to provide us passage back to Tevinter, in exchange for certain goods being expedited through the harbormaster in Minrathous."

"Very well," Danarius replies, clearly irritated at being forced to remain standing in the sea mist for so long. "You have my assurances."

The Captain's eyes gleam with this. "Wonderful," she says, "We can expect to make port in under a week."

"Good. I will require a workspace and privacy on board your vessel."

"That will not be a problem," she replies. "My crew are no strangers to welcoming guests of the Imperium, although rarely anyone as distinguished as yourself. You may utilize one of the storage holds. It is dry and well-insulated, often occupied by… our more unruly cargo. There should be sufficient room for whatever you intend."

Fenris feels the Captain's gaze drift toward him. His eyes meet hers and he cannot help but feel his face flush with embarrassment and anger.

One corner of Leonor's mouth arcs upward slightly. "If there are no other matters to attend," she offers, "my men will show you aboard."

Danarius looks toward Lorias before beginning to walk toward the ship. Lorias walks past, and as he does he bumps his arm into the elf's back, pushing him stumbling forward. And thus Fenris finds himself walking once again. His body moves without his mind's resistance. He is numb. This is it, then.

Would death really be worse than this? Would he not rather go out fighting? Even if it were hopeless.

They step onto the pier and begin the approach toward… a small rowboat. The large vessel is visible now, docked a bit further out into the water. Too large to come so close to shore. They are to ferry out to it.

Waves send the platform upward and back in a slow roil. He feels trapped, the invisible edges of the thin pier closing in on him.

Into the rowboat. The air feels thick in his throat. He looks out. Beside them is only the inky blackness of the sea.

It takes no time at all to make the crossing. Fenris nearly feels as though time skipped past.

A memory has jumped into his mind. A moment from years before but clear now as the day it'd occurred. Something the abomination had asked while they'd followed Hawke through the equally claustrophobic, despair-riddled passageways of Darktown.

They reach the ship, are hoisted upward, and step out onto its deck, hugging the rail of one side as they move once more.

Halfway across, his legs slow. Lorias stops just behind, and he can tell the man watches him very closely. Danarius, now several paces ahead, pauses and turns around.

Fenris feels his legs buckle as he slumps backward onto his heels. His eyes stare forward at the woodgrain of the floorboards.

"Come along, Fenris," Danarius sighs. "Don't make this difficult. You will only be hurting yourself."

In his periphery he sees Lorias standing ready. In the man's hand sits the stone, in plain sight. A reminder to behave. That he cannot fight back.

The memory is still there, vibrant like a white-hot flame in his chest. Anders, in a surprisingly solemn moment, had asked if Fenris had ever considered killing himself, while he'd been a slave.

Like a crack of lightning, he feels his body jolt, acting as if on its own with his mind only taking hold by a thread. He spins on his heels, thrusts forward to grab Lorias by the arm, and pulls their combined weight in a sidelong arc.

The man's face carries a look of genuine surprise as instinct takes over. The stone and collar come to life, but the damage is already done.

They topple over the ship's low rail like cargo thrown overboard. Throat tight and marks searing with fire, a fast approaching wall of blackness is the last thing Fenris sees before they plunge into the abyss.

\---

The sun is low on the horizon. It cuts forward through the forest with fans of light. Sharp shadows shift beneath the spindled branches of fir trees along the road below. A wide road worn through long ago by trade routes.

But it is devoid of traffic. In fact, they'd not encountered another soul for the last few hours. Another consequence of this northernly route, along with the loss of the Free Marches to the Qunari in this darker reflection of Thedas.

The group has tried their best to keep up conversation, but each has found it difficult, even ignoring the quick pace they'd endured the entire day. They'd stopped only twice. The first was to allow a few moments rest, sharing a rushed meal amongst themselves to keep up their strength.

Throughout the day Dorian has tried his best to keep his mind focused, but he has found it betraying him… wandering now and then to their newest arrival. Earlier in the day, while the others were investigating the town of Herrier, he'd attempted to strike up conversation, but had found only limited and awkward small talk. It was eerie for him. This is definitely the man he knows, yet he also could not be further from that man. Bull, on the other hand, had paid him little mind. He is happy for that, he supposes, considering the alternative might be open hostility given their two peoples' history.

The group's second stop was at a small checkpoint near the road, which they'd come upon only a few hours earlier. It had been marked on the map given to them by the Inquisition's spymaster: The last known location of their target.

After a brief watch from the nearby woods, Hawke had rushed inside with staff drawn. Lavellan followed not far behind, trying her best to keep focused and not sound an alert should anyone be waiting in ambush.

They'd found little, of course: A worn, upturned chair and table in the hallway. A few small rooms, two overgrown where the stone walls had crumbled long ago. The third intact but empty except for a set of chains bound into the floor.

Hawke knew he'd been kept here. Standing there in the damp, dimly lit room, he'd reached down and gently touched the shackles with his fingertips. A cold pain had riled in his stomach. It'd been there for some time but only now did it truly threaten to tear through him. What had Danarius done here? Was he too late? Hawke scoured the stones for any indication of runes… or lyrium… or Maker preserve… traces of blood. There were none. He still couldn't help but fear the worst.

Varric had stood in the doorway with Lavellan wishing he could do more. The dwarf felt helpless in this situation. He'd rather be faced with someone to bribe, someone to beguile, or someone who needed a bolt through their neck.

It was the Iron Bull who had found the footprints outside. Fresh, not even a few hours old. Two in boots and another in lighter shoes. All three walking toward a set of carriage and horse tracks. It gave them a rough idea, at least, where to head next. North, toward the sea, as to be expected.

…and so they've continued on for several hours more.

They'll find him, Hawke reassures himself. They'll find him and bring him back if it means Hawke must sacrifice himself all over again.

\---

The question sits heavy in the air for several breaths before he is able to find a suitable answer.

"I did not. To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker."

The heavy silence between them is palpable.

"You… believe that?"

"I try to. Some things must be worse than slavery."

The mage looks off to the side, frustrated. Several locks of unwashed golden hair fall out of their place behind his ear. "Some things are worse than death," he mutters.

Fenris feels a retort growing in his throat, but it fizzles before coming to fruition. Instead, the man's words shift and hang heavy in his mind, as if looking for meaning.

The silence between them only grows stronger now as they continue to walk. The grime-filled tunnel they find themselves in is devoid of the normal array of Darktown refugees and criminals. Hawke's tall form walks confidently a few paces ahead, jovially chatting with Varric. They're both seemingly unaware of the others' weighted conversation.

Fenris feels… something, in that silence. He would never willingly admit it openly. But in this, for the first time, he might just have found a tiny thread of sympathy for what he believes Anders has endured.

\---

He cannot breathe, cannot think. All around him is darkness. His lungs are on fire. He reaches out, but feels nothing except an icy numbness. He tries to focus, panic beginning to set in. Through blurred vision he can see dim light and he pushes toward it.

Fenris breaks the surface with a hard gasp, the cold night air shocking his lungs back to order. His head darts around as his eyes sting from the saltwater. Ahead of him is an endless, rolling horizon of dark sea beneath a gray sky. It is an utterly disconcerting feeling, lost among this.

As he gains his senses, however, he looks behind and easily spots the forested shore. The ship is visible, as well, some distance down the shoreline. He sees lights bouncing along it. Some few moving downward along its side. He wagers it must be the crew carrying lanterns.

Aiming himself away from it all he focuses toward the farthest edge of the shore he can see.

The waves are heavy but not impossible. Fenris is not a great swimmer in the best of circumstances, but here he is able to tread water and push forward enough to make an approach. He fears the sea might pull him further away from the shore, but to his surprise it seems to be doing the opposite.

He is eventually swept toward an outcropping of rocks jutting from the waterline. As the waves push him head-on into them he tries his best to grab hold. The first few attempts are not so successful, missing entirely or crashing into them with little to no result. Eventually, though, he is able to grab hold and keep himself steady well enough to climb out of the water, make several jagged steps forward, and collapse to his knees not far from the water's edge.

Fenris tries his best to catch his breath. His entire body is numb, both from cold and exhaustion. Looking up and wiping the last of the water from his eyes he surveys the area. The shore is covered by coarse dirt, rocks, and debris. A thick line of trees border not far back. Overhead a moon peeks bright through a break in the clouds. It's all that illuminates the otherwise dark and gray night. He is positioned within a well-shrouded alcove on the forest's edge. He can no longer see the ship since coming ashore; it's fallen out of view behind the trees.

His is shivering all over. The thin tunic and pants are soaked through, and provide little protection from the cold sea air. Looking down to his hands, he sees the thin lines of lyrium stretching from his fingertip back along his forearms, up underneath the dirtied, wet fabric. Suddenly reminded, he raises one hand to his neck.

The collar is still there, dormant. Its metal surface is quite cold to the touch. He feels a small, pained laugh escape his lungs. He cannot help it. He thought the thing would surely strangle him when they'd fallen. But somehow he'd survived.

After this, he comes to his senses. He snaps to focus once more and attempts to stand. His arms and hands are numb and his legs and back ache heavily. But there isn't time to rest. They will be searching.

The first few steps are slow and unsteady. But with each one he gains his balance. As soon as he is past the tree line the wind begins to lose its bite and he feels adrenaline take over.

Just as he had years before, he begins to run.

\---

The sound of their mounts' hooves in the cold dirt plays rhythmic background as Hawke's mind drifts from thoughts of anger and worry to yearned memory.

Of a bright, warm afternoon in Hightown.

Walking across the square of the Chantry courtyard, Hawke had felt a particular spring in his step. He'd just returned from settling matters with Aveline for services rendered the week before. Another job taken and done for the city guard, and another payment made to their most-oft called-upon adventuring nobleman. He didn't even feel fatigued from the previous night's festivities at the Hanged Man.

He steps up to the heavy oak door with a calm smile on his face. The nearby windows are each dark and dusty. Several long, leafy vines grow up out of the foundation stones and climb the edges of the doorframe. Raising his fist up, he delivers three hard, solid knocks onto the sturdy wood. He can feel the hollow sound echo through the wide space inside.

There is no answer.

He smiles to himself once more. Reaching down, he tries the handle. It's unlocked, as he expects. He releases the latch, gently pushes, and steps inside.

After closing the door behind him, his ears adjust to the deadened silence. A familiar stale air permeates his senses. Throughout the entry hall every table, statue, and painting is coated in a light layer of dust. If one didn't know any better, they might think nobody had set foot here in years.

Crossing the hall, Hawke passes two side doors, each leading to other unused areas of the house. Making his way up the stairway at the far end, he slips past a pair of shattered statues carrying the distinct designs of old Tevinter. A not uncommon sight in some of Kirkwall's older estates. Down the hall to the door on the far end, now, and two soft knocks on the woodgrain.

"Enter, Hawke.", he hears from beyond.

He slides the door open as the light of the fireplace beyond illuminates the hall. This room, in stark contrast to the rest of the house, feels different… lived in. Against the far corner is a simple wooden bed frame cradling a worn mattress. Beside it sits a small table and a floor chest, and against the wall stands a large greatsword. In the middle of the room, facing the fireplace, is another table placed between two large armchairs. Several empty wine bottles rest on the table. A silhouetted form sits in the far chair watching the crackle of embers rise from the hearth.

"How do you always know it's me knocking on the door when I stop by?," Hawke asks as he walks closer.

Eyes still focused on the fire, Fenris smirks a bit. "You and Donnic are the only two who bother to knock. And he only comes once a week for Diamondback."

"I thought Isabella came by now and then."

"She does, when she's feeling particularly bored. But she never knocks. Which has led to nearly mistaking her for a foolhearty slaver on more than one occasion."

"Right," Hawke says sheepishly as he moves to take a seat in the other chair.

He stares at the fire for the moment, matching the elf's posture. He can just barely feel the fire's warmth against his knees. Then, as if suddenly remembering his purpose for being here, he reaches into his pouch and pulls out a small sackcloth coin purse and sets it on the table.

For the first time since he'd had arrived, Fenris breaks focus from the fire and looks over, meeting his eyes.

Hawke smiles, his warmth emulating the fireplace. "Your share of the job last week. Apparently Bran threw in a few additional sovereigns for us keeping quiet on the business with the apostate. The city's got enough problems without the Docks being closed down for yet another Templar investigation."

Fenris is quiet for a moment, but does not break eye contact.

"Hawke…"

The smile begins to fade from his lips. "Is something the matter?"

"N… no," the elf says as he looks back toward his feet. "I just… find myself questioning things."

"Questioning things?," Hawke parrots. "How so?"

"Do not get me wrong, I enjoy following you. I enjoy… being with you. You sat here after everything and showed me that I might have some hope for a life, free of my past. That I could become someone of my own choosing."

Hawke lets out the breath he didn't realized he'd been holding. "…and you're concerned with who that someone might be."

"Yes. Since I met you, I've watched you make decision after decision. About your life, about other people's lives, and about the future of this city. I admit I haven't agreed with all of those choices. But recently, I've realized something. I would stand by you regardless of how I felt about such matters… if it came to it. That has made me reconsider some of my own choices. About where I might want to find myself."

Hawke, who has been quietly listening until now, looks up with caring eyes. "I wish I had an answer for you. Or even a little sage advice. I've never been good at that sort of thing. But know that I've often felt the same way."

"Truly?"

Hawke looks over to the empty wine bottles on the table, eyes tracing the peeled corner of one label.

"After I regained my family's estate, I asked myself many times whether this is who I wanted to be. Suddenly I was part of the nobility. People I didn't even know expected things of me. Until then, I'd spent my entire life as a simple Ferelden nobody."

"You told me once you had thought of returning, but chose not to."

"Yes. I wondered if I'd be better off away from all this. But I think I realized quite a while ago that this is my home. I didn't really plan for that to happen. I suppose home for me is somewhere I can be with the people I care about most."

The fire is growing a bit more dim. After another moment's silence, Hawke looks back toward his host. He realizes Fenris' eyes must have been focused on him for some time.

"I… would very much like to feel that as well, I think," Fenris says.

It is only when Hawke hears Lavellan calling his name that he snaps back to the present.

He isn't sure what they others have been talking about. He turns to her, riding just behind him. She motions for them all to stop and pull to the roadside.

"I'm sorry… my mind seems to have wandered."

"I asked if you see the lights ahead, through the trees. We may be getting close. We need to be prepared."

"Yes. I'm ready," he says, as the others all confirm as well.

"Good," she says. "Let's tie the horses up near the next ridge. If they are indeed nearby we want to have the advantage, so it's best to travel on foot and stick to the woods. Hopefully we are still close enough that they have yet to leave port on a ship."

Hawke nods once more. The moment has faded from his mind, now. Only bits and pieces remain; The feeling of the fire has been replaced by the cold bite of the night air.

Once their mounts are secured just off the path, they move into the trees and follow parallel to the road closer to their destination. Coming upon a ridge overlooking the area they stop and duck down to get a closer look at the dark port and docks below.

There are indeed lights. Lantern lights, from the looks of it. Carried by figures just far enough away to not be fully discernible. Hawke can count at least eight, perhaps more. The figures are hard to track as they slip behind and in-between the trees quickly.

"What are they doing?" Varric asks quietly.

"It looks as though they're searching for something," Dorian replies. "They seem to be fanning out."

"They're moving too quickly to be searching for a some-_thing_," offers Bull. "They must be searching for a some-_one_."

"Fenris." Hawke says unequivocally.  
  
"Could he have escaped?" asks Dorian.

Hawke has no doubts. "There—" he says, pointing toward the leftmost edge of the fan. One of the lights appears different and is snaking through the trees with greater haste than the others.

"That's not a lantern," says Lavellan. "That is magic."

Dorian's eyes focus tight on the light. It has the slightest tinge of violet. "An illumination spell, yes. I believe you're right. That is likely our wayward magister."

"Alright, how do you want to do this?" Bull asks, surveying each figure. "Split into pairs and pick 'em off one by one? Or flank around to the back and take them by all by surprise?"

Lavellan exhales calmly. "Even with the element of surprise and forest cover, I still do not like the odds of five against ten."

"We could use a distraction," Varric offers, pointing near the docks. "Look over there. I think those are pitch barrels. You know… for sealing hulls. If we could set a few of those on fire, we might be able to get their attention for a bit. Think you could handle that, Sparkler?"

"Yes. A well-placed firebolt or two should do it. But what then? We'll not have much time."

Hawke's voice is steady and confident: "Once the others are distracted, we go straight for Danarius."


	15. Fire

Hawke holds the grip of his staff tightly. The soft leather cord that wraps it is worn from many years of battle. In his earlier days he often changed staves regularly, driven in part by the sudden influx of funds afforded by his newly acquired noble title. Since shortly before the final events in Kirkwall, though, he's carried this same weapon.

It is a solid staff fashioned from cherry with a deep, dark grain. At its tip sits a strong steel blade which accommodates well to his personal style of melee combat… a style he'd piked up from his father and honed over many years spent hiding his true nature. Along its length are accents of decorative red leather cord, wound tightly and increasingly closer as they move towards the grip. Made from snowfleur skin, he'd been told once by Sebastian Vael, who'd mentioned the leather also made a fine bow grip. Atop the staff's crown the wood branches into winding tendrils, encircling a glass-like crimson crystal. It is a well-crafted and highly-effective fire staff.

The crystal blooms with a low, heavy light as the staff is driven forward in a tall arc, coming down in line with Hawke's firmly-planted left leg. Beside him stands Dorian in a similar stance, staff coming down in just a moment after. From each staff comes a fiery bolt of energy which streaks forward through the trees.

When the first hits there is the sound of splintering wood as the stack of barrels take the impact. Less than a heartbeat later the second lands just below the first, driving deep into the target.

Hawke can see the orange glow of the fire at the impact site. He moves to look back to the others, ready to ask Varric if this would be enough. He does not even have time to turn his head.

The explosion that follows releases a deafening boom, momentarily lighting up the dark forest like a miniature sun. Hawke feels the force of the blast deep in his chest and stumbles back a few steps. Dorian, also caught off guard, jumps backward alongside him.

The pair look back up and see a great cloud of black smoke emanating from a large fire which has broken out, throwing debris towards the dock, into the trees, and up onto several of the neighboring buildings.

"What… the fuck…" is all Hawke can manage. His ears are still ringing and his own voice sounds distant in his head.

"Varric?! What was THAT?," Hawke can hear from the man beside him. "I thought you said the pitch would spark a _small_ fire?!"

Varric's eyes are wide and incredulous, his mouth open in disbelief.

"That was not pitch!," Bull yells as he crests the ridge to join them.

"What? Then what was it?!" Dorian asks.

"Gaatlok!," Bull replies, smiling widely.

Inquisitor Lavellan is not far behind, scanning the trees. "There!," she yells, pointing at the several figures spread throughout the forest with lanterns that are now rushing back toward the docks. As most move to investigate, a few remain stationary off in the trees. Among them is the distinct light of a mage's illumination spell.

"Everyone on me!" Hawke shouts before rushing forward. The others are ready to follow. Down the far side of the ridge they quickly reach level ground. Hawke, Bull and Lavellan drive ahead with determination, Varric and Dorian not far behind, watching their flank for stragglers who might see the opportunity to strike.

Hawke sprints through the trees. He must catch them. That light, that mage, must be Danarius.

He jumps over a downed log stretched over the forest floor. His boots come to a hard landing in the dirt and he continues running. His breathing is heavy. The night air is cold. His chest is tight. He doesn't care. The light is getting closer.

Now, though, the light has changed. Through the trees he can see a deep, bright red color spreading into the air. The red aura pulses, sending a tear of dread into his stomach. Could Danarius have caught up to him?

As the distance is closed, two of the lantern lights begin to quickly approach. They seem to be aware of their pursuers. Hawke's sprint slows to a guarded run as he flips his staff and readies for battle.

The figures, two men in what appears to be leather armor, approach and move into cover. Hawke is sure he'd seen one pull a bow from his back.

"Do not get in my way. I want the mage!," Hawke shouts ahead as he ducks beside a tight grouping of trees. He can see Lavellan and Bull just behind. Bull dives away to the left just as an arrow zips by Hawke's cover and lodges in a tree trunk not far back. Lavellan dives to the right and lands directly beside Hawke.

"Fine, had your chance," Hawke says under his breath.

Hawke is ready to fight. But just then, off in the distance, a faint scream can be heard. Hawke can only just hear it over his own heart pounding. He takes a quick look above their cover. Focusing on the trees, he sees nothing. But glancing up, he immediately notices it: above the tree line a column of pale blue light shoots upward into the gray clouds like a beacon.

Just then, an arrow lands not far from his position. He quickly ducks back down into cover, and looks to the Inquisitor.

"What did you see?," Lavellan asks.

"Nothing that will help us right this moment," he replies. "We need to get past."

"I can draw their fire," Lavellan says confidently. "Be ready."

"Right," he replies. "After you, Inquisitor."

With a breath, Lavellan pulls her staff up and rounds the far side of the trees. Her attention scans and snaps to focus, pulling her staff forward to fire a blast of deep blue energy. The magic lands hard on the treetops, quickly spreading to form large ice crystals. A grunt and yell is heard as one of the men takes the impact of several branches that are broken free and fall to the ground from the ice's weight.

Hawke slides out of cover and readies another attack, his staff glowing and ready. The man has fallen just out of cover next to the tree, backing off slightly as he regains his composure. Hawke lets loose a fireball, impacting the ground just as the man jumps out of the way.

From the corner of his eye, Hawke sees the second man step from cover, bow drawn. He prepares to dive to one side, but just a he does a large figure emerges from the shadows nearby and thrusts a large sword down upon the bowman. A deep scream is heard as the sword makes contact. Bull's form becomes more clear as he pulls the sword back up and runs forward.

Hawke's attention snaps back to the first man, who by now has retrieved his fallen sword and is ready to strike. Too close for a spell, Hawke pulls he staff back and flips it for a melee strike. His staff blade impacts the man's sword as it comes forward for a thrust, deflecting the blade. The man steps back and defends himself as Hawke's staff comes down to strike. It makes a sharp thud as the staff blade impacts the man's buckler, deflecting the blade to the side. The man grunts as he thrusts forward once more, aiming for Hawke's torso. Hawke pivots on his heel, stepping to his side and pulling his staff back up to crack into the man's helm. The momentary disorientation is enough for the mage to pull back up and drive the staff blade forward.

The man lets out a pained yell as the blade sinks into the shoulder of his sword arm. The sword unceremoniously clatters to the ground as Hawke drives his foot forward to kick the man square in the chest, knocking him backward.

The man quickly attempts to get to his feet as Hawke stands ready. But the mage's attention shifts, looking back toward where the red light had been. It is now dark.

Hawke focuses back to the swordsman just as he's beginning to approach. Behind him stands the Inquisitor, who's exited cover and seems to understand.

"Go!" Lavellan shouts. "I'll handle it."

Hawke requires no more license. He quickly spins and begins running toward where he's last seen the remaining figures, who by now must have made it a good distance ahead. Bull doesn't hesitate. He follows quickly behind.

As they run off, the swordsman gets to his feet with his sword and moves toward Lavellan. She readies another ice spell. He's a few paces ahead, closing fast. She lets the blast loose and it impacts hard against the man's arm as he raises defensively. He drives forward through the ice that's forming around him. Just as he reaches near her, he's slowed to a dead stop as the ice encases his entire body, freezing him solid in a wall of ice.

From just behind her she hears running as Varric and Dorian catch up.

"Which way?," Dorian asks between breaths.

Lavellan points upward at the column of light. "Hawke and Bull are after them. Come on."

\---

It's not long before Fenris feels the fatigue in every joint in his body. It has been many years since it has been pushed so hard, so long since he's had to ignore his muscles' protests. So long since he'd felt this fear.

Not since Seheron.

When he'd escaped, the first time, he'd trailed through the dense jungles and followed winding paths as best he could while trying to stay clear from any Qunari patrols. Only stopping to rest when his body could push no further. Finding a broken hour's respite from time to time beneath the moonlight. It had been hot. Humid.

Here, though, it is cold. Winter's grasp threatening to blanket the land. Evergreens brushing against his arms as he slips by. He can feel every root and every stone beneath his boots. An odd feeling… running with boots.

His stamina is definitely lesser than it had been back then. He is breathing hard. His stomach churns with a mix of anxiety and exhaustion. But he forces his body to push on. There is a tense feeling along the length of his spine… they could be right on his trail.

The collar jumps and bounces against his neck with every stride. He fears that any moment it will come to life and stop him dead in his tracks; a sure sign that Danarius has caught him. The only solace he has rests in that if the collar has yet to reawaken, its range must be limited. Or that the stone which controlled it might now be lost beneath the sea.

The darkness is broken by the dim patches of moonlight slipping through the treetops. These timberlands are not as hard to traverse as those jungles were, but the low light gives no favors. As Fenris moves, the thin branch of a tree appears out of the darkness and swipes at him. He dodges, but not quick enough to prevent it from snagging on the sleeve of his worn shirt. It grabs hold, but his momentum pushes forward, and he hears the tearing of cloth as it is forced free.

Running. Pushing. He blinks fast several times. His eyes have become dry with the night air. He feels his lungs might burst.

He hears something… far off in the distance. It's hard to tell, with the wind rushing by his ears. An explosion? Perhaps it was a figment of his mind. He doesn't take time to consider further. He keeps moving.

It isn't long before his condition takes its toll. He moves to jump over a low root stuck up from the ground. But when he lifts his leg to clear it, his foot catches. His arms shoot out to catch him as he falls to the ground, coming to a hard stop on top of cold dirt and pine needles.

Body aching, he pushes onto his side and quickly sits up. He spits soil from his mouth and brushes pine needles from his face. His breathing is still heavy. Two quick coughs, knocking the last bits of dust from his lungs.

Then he listens.

He can hear only the quiet rustling of trees in the wind above him. The forest is otherwise silent. Scanning the horizon, he sees no lights through the growth. No-one is upon him.

He carefully climbs to his feet. His palms feel scraped from the fall. Hands move up to cup his face, sliding backward to pull his long white hair aside. He steadies himself.

It is then that he feels a tinge of something in his throat. No. It can't be, he begs. He reaches for the collar. He can feel a light static charge against his fingertips as they touch the metal's surface. It threatens to come to life.

He pulls on the collar sharply, driving the dull metal into the back of his neck. His hands grip tightly, pulling with as much force as he can muster. But it's of no use. Soon, a bright aura of blue light jets out from it, and simultaneously his marks flare into a searing pain unlike anything he'd felt before.

He screams, eyes forced shut from the sheer agony he now feels. He crumples to the ground and falls onto his side. The world around him is gone, and all he feels is his entire body being consumed by cold, burning pain.

Then… just as suddenly, it begins to subside. The pain begins to lessen bit by bit, replaced with numbness and ache. He still cannot move.

He tries to move, but cannot. His body has given out from exhaustion. The moments pass as his mind screams for him to get to his feet.

He finally manages to open his eyes. In front of his face are his hands, cradled together. The marks are a bright, pale blue. The pain is nearly gone.

A third hand then appears in his vision, striking forward to grab him. He feels the fingers wrap around his throat, pulling him sharply upward. Lorias' angered face comes out of the darkness.

"You… little… knife-ear, piece of shit!" he yells.

Fenris instinctively grabs the man's arm but has little strength to fight back.

"It was going to be easy for you. You wouldn't have even remembered it. Then you have to go and nearly get me swept out to sea. I should beat the sense out of you."

Fenris rallies any last ounce of strength he has in a last-ditch effort. He pours as much focus into his marks as he can bear and drives the heel of his hand into the man's jaw. Lorias grunts painfully, twisting his face to one side.

Then, he looks back with murder in his eyes, and backhands Fenris heavily across his right eye.

"Release him," Danarius says as he arrives behind the man.

Lorias complies, loosing his grip from Fenris' throat and allowing the elf to fall back to the ground.

Lorias steps back behind Danarius as he approaches.

"You do not understand how much I had to prepare in such a short amount of time. A proper place was required; The proper tools. And do you really believe I would be so foolish as to create the collar without some way to track you? The spell just requires a bit of blood," he says, holding out his freshly-cut hand. "A small amount, and I would be able to find you nearly anywhere."

Danarius moves to stand over Fenris. He knees down beside him and reaches out, carefully pushing the few loose strands of white hair out of Fenris' eyes.

"So much fight in you," he says, a certain degree of warmth in his voice. "Your determination… it was what intrigued me to begin with. Even in the trials… against larger, stronger, more capable adversaries, you didn't yield. You kept fighting… you never wavered. My little wolf."

Then, Danarius… smiles softly. He slowly stands, brushing the little bits of dirt from the front of his robes, and takes a breath. Reaching to his hip, he pulls from its sheath a long, sharp dagger. He turns around, looking to Lorias, who still stands just behind, and in one fluid motion drives the dagger deep into the man's throat.

"Here, then," Danarius says, his voice cold once again.

Lorias lets out wet chocking sounds as the dagger is pulled free. As the man falls, Danarius' other hand rises with a deep red glow. The blood spilling forth from the wound begins to radiate the same light, then rapidly swirls into a vibrant vortex surrounding the mage's arm. The body quietly slumps to the ground lifeless at Danarius' feet.

The coalescence complete, Danarius looms over Fenris, face illuminated in a sickly red aura.

\---

As Hawke rushes forward, Bull not far behind, he is not sure he's going the right direction. He looks up once more, but can no longer see the column of light. But then, just as he hurriedly scans the horizon, he sees a dark red glow emanating not far away.

They raise their guard and approach, but something feels off. The distinct smell in the air of sulfur.

"Shades!" Hawke shouts just as a trio of the demons flow from the darkness to engage them.

"Argh. Why is it always demons with 'Vints?" Bull responds as he swings the greatsword and only just misses the first.

Hawke isn't listening. He fires a blast of fire toward one of the shades. It strikes the form near its base, setting fire to its ragged robes. As it panics, he jumps forward, spinning his staff around to bring the blade in a sharp slice across its face. It growls and slithers to one side, black ooze seeping from the wound.

Bull reasserts his stance and drives forward, impaling one of the shades on the sword. It screeches an unholy sound as it begins to melt down the blade. As he pulls it free, the second shade takes a swipe from his left flank, claws scraping against the Qunari's armor and he manages to parry. He spins the blade around quickly, lopping the second shade's head clean off in a smooth motion.

Hawke drives his staff blade deep into the shade attacking him. As it begins to fall, though, he feels more coming out of the shadows, along with the distinct burbling sound that precedes a rage demon.

"Watch it, Hawke!"

A shade immediately behind him screeches as a crossbow bolt embeds into its face, and it beings to dissolve.

"Thanks, Varric" Hawke yells as the others come running from the woods to join.

Dorian swings his staff to fire a blast at another encroaching shade. Lavellan stands back-to-back with him, firing a blast of ice toward the rage demon that has now formed just beside them.

For every demon they take down, another seems to appear in its place. Increasingly large shades, rage demons, and a pair of despair demons. Each time the group fights and slowly manages to defeat the foes.

Dorian takes a blast of ice across his arm from one of the despair demons, knocking him down. He downs an elfroot potion, one of the last they have left, in an attempt to stave off any effects. He recovers just in time to see a hulking form appear not far from them.

"Pride demon!," he hears Lavellan shout. "We have to take it out now!"

The group rushes forward, surrounding the demon. It roars, the sound echoing through the dark forest. With a great slash of its arm it drives a lighting strike forward, knocking Bull and Hawke down in one quick motion.

Varric quickly fires bolt after bolt from Bianca, landing them squarely into its thick hide. From beside him, Lavellan fires a large volley of fireballs from her staff, blasting into the creature's face and momentarily blinding it. It roars again, shining toward them. Varric dives out of the way just as its arm crashes to the ground, sending up a shower of dirt and debris.

Lavellan runs to its other side, using the opportunity to drive her staff blade deep into its hip. It screams, losing balance to fall to its knees. The opening clear, the five regroup and make one last attack against it.

It growls angrily as its energy fails and it begins to dissolve into a greenish miasma. With the pride demon fallen, the group quickly considers their position. No more demons appear.

"I think we're clear," Varric says.

"Which way, Hawke?" Lavellan asks.

Hawke begins to run. "This way. The glow is coming from over there."

The others trail him, watching the forest closely for any additional figures that might emerge.

A short distance away, the light can be seen clearly. The glow illuminates the treetops and all of the surrounding area in a strong torrent of magical energy. At its center, a silhouette stands, long tendrils of blood red magic emanating all around him. On the ground, Hawke thinks he sees…

"Get away from him!," he screams, sprinting forward with his staff blade pointed out, ready to strike.

The silhouette turns slowly as he closes.

"Ah. You must be Hawke."

Focusing his left arm forward, right hand and staff held high in the air, Hawke pulls downward strongly as a massive wave of force energy moves to pull Danarius away.

The man's robes barely flutter. Danarius considers Hawke with slight amusement for a moment before reaching an arm out and releasing a solid red wave of energy that impacts Hawke hard, throwing him back into the others.

"Forgive me… Champion, was it? So difficult to remember. You see, the Garrett Hawke from this world held no such title. He died… died trying to fight a force of nature which he did not understand. In so doing, he robbed me of my life's greatest work. Something for which I care deeply. So you will have to understand if I choose to hold you just a small bit responsible."

Hawke climbs to his feet and picks up his staff. Beside him, Varric has already readied a bolt. He pulls the trigger. Just as it reaches Danarius, the bolt shatters as a field of red energy defects it.

"Please do be patient," Danarius responds. "I'm afraid you're not finding me at my best. But I guarantee you, I am plenty capable of defending myself."

Hawke looks to the others with desperation. "Can we break through his barrier? Inquisitor, can the anchor somehow?"

"No, I don't think it can," she replies. "The veil is too strong here."

They both look to Dorian, who sadly shakes his head.

"Danarius," Lavellan steps forward, "Inquisitor Trevelyan sent us to kill you, in exchange for his help to get us home. None of us belong here. And you know it won't stop here. Let Fenris go, and we'll let you live."

"Please, I'm not an imbecile. I know Trevelyan sent you. But do you truly believe he would just allow you to return home once all is done? How naive could you possibly be, Inquisitor? I am not the only person with the desire to use this power," he says, pulling the time amulet from his robes. He holds it up into the light.

"You do not know how powerful that amulet is," Dorian yells. "If you go playing with it you could end up tearing apart the veil and time itself!"

"Ah, it is so very interesting. Some of the underlying formulae are distinctly of ancient elven origin, you know. I hear this breakthrough was partially of your doing, Pavus? I see now why Alexius spoke so highly of you. Well… the other you, I suppose. It's such a shame the Venatori couldn't see his usefulness."

"Enough of this," Hawke yells. "I will not let you have Fenris. I will hunt you to the ends of this world and any other."

"Oh, I believe you, Champion," Danarius says as he lowers his hands. "He is rather skilled, isn't he? I would know, after all. I made him into everything that he is. How close were the two of you, Champion? Did he show you the same respect he showed me? The same utter devotion? Was he willing to die for you?"

Hawke's face turns bright crimson with anger. "I swear I'm going to burn you into ashes, you monster!"

Danarius smirks. "See, you do not truly understand what you had found. But why take my word for it. Why not ask him yourself?"

He turns back and waves his hands, the bright glowing torrent finally going calm and subsiding. On his far side, Fenris' silhouetted form stirs awake, before climbing to his feet. He walks forward and stands just beside Danarius.

"Ah, my little wolf. So good of you to join us," Danarius says, touching his hand to Fenris' chin.

Hawke's blood runs cold. Fenris' eyes carry the same dark red glow. No… this can't be happening.

Danarius looks toward Hawke. "Do you see that man over there? That is the Champion of Kirkwall. I want you to tear out his heart."

Fenris' eyes focus and his marks take on their signature blue glow.

"Yes, master."


	16. Pain

Pain. White-hot and burning.

Unrelenting. Unforgiving.

He tries to scream but his throat is raw.

What is this? Will it ever cease? It has gone on so long. Ragged breaths are stolen between the worst of it. He tries to pull away, to curl up, but is unable to move. It is slowly tearing through him bit by bit, inching across him.

He can't quite…

Wait… no. It's different now. There is bright light blinding. The white-hot pain is gone, replaced instead by a dull ache that permeates. It hurts to move. His ears are ringing.

His eyes adjust to the light. He tilts his head and looks around.

He is lying on a bedroll. It's on the floor in the corner of a small room. The floor and walls are made of light stone. At the top of one wall are several windows cut high up, allowing warm morning daylight to pour in. On the opposite wall is a door. Beside it sits a small table, and further along the wall is a wooden stool.

Where is this? He can't quite… remember.

He tries to sit up. It takes some effort; The ache is trying and his body protests even the slightest movements. But once propped against the wall, he relaxes against it and looks down to see why.

His hands and forearms are covered in scars. They wind along in thin, curving patterns. Turning his hand over, he sees they are present here, too. All the way down, coming to a gentle stop just before the tip of each finger. Along the edges of each twist and curl the skin is slightly pink, as if newly healed.

He flexes his hands once, then again, feeling the sensation within his skin. His eyes follow the markings along his arm as they move up under his sleeve, then reappearing on his chest; They are on his legs; He can feel the ache along his back. The marks run from his fingertips all the way to his toes.

He touches a finger to his neck, and traces a line up to his chin. It elicits that same feeling of dull pain.

All he can remember is that pain. And… a figure, bathed in colorful light. Reaching toward him. He had tried opening his eyes, but it was too much. Were there others? Through all of the pain he had felt… as though he'd been floating.

How did he get here? His heart jumps with a spark of panic as he realizes he can remember nothing more.

The door opens.

Through the door enters an older elven woman with long gray hair. She carries a small white basin in her arms, stepping carefully so as not to spill its contents. She startles a bit when she sees him.

"Oh! You are awake! I…" she says, as she sets the basin down on the small table. "I will fetch the Master."

She hastily leaves before he can respond, closing the door behind her. She does not feel familiar. His pulse quickens a bit more.

The room is quiet. He can hear birds through the windows, and can see the branches of several large trees. The room is sparse, but warm.

He tries to remember more. But… it does not come. There are only brief flashes during the pain. He would prefer not to remember that.

A few moments pass before the door opens once more. This time, a tall man walks through with a dark, carefully-groomed beard and dressed in fine robes. The man looks upon him with curious eyes.

"Ah, at last," the man says, approaching with confidence. One hand rises from the long sleeves of the fine robes, reaching for the wooden stool and pulling it nearby to take a seat beside him. The same hand then reaches out. "Well, then, let us have a look at you."

It takes a moment before he understands and lifts his arm, placing a wrist in the man's waiting palm.

The man considers the marks carefully, surveying with determined eyes for several long moments, then reaches the other hand out and begins to trace one finger along the edge of a delicate curled line on the underside of his forearm.

The sensation sends a shiver up his arm and down his spine.

"Hmm. Sensitive, yet, it seems. It is to be expected. They are recovering well. No more need for the healer."

The man looks up now to his face; His own eyes dart down. Somehow he understands.

The hand sets aside his wrist and reaches out to his chin, taking it carefully between the thumb and forefinger and tilting upward slightly. He feels the dull ache in his neck as the skin pulls gently. After a few moments of inspection, the hand slips back away and the man leans back to sit straight upon the stool once more.

"Can you speak?," the man says.

He parts his lips slightly and inhales.

"Y… y…es…," with a weak voice and tight throat. He pauses for a moment, then tries once more. "Yes, Master."

"Good."

His Master reaches into the robe and pulls out a small book. Flipping through its pages carefully, then considering one section quietly for several moments. Once seemingly satisfied, the book snaps shut and is quickly stowed back in the pocket of the robe.

"You will be allowed the remainder of the morning to rest. After a meal, you will come to my study so I may begin my tests."

"Yes, Master," he says, not raising his head.

"I am eager to see how well the process took. It should prove most enlightening."

His Master's eyes light up while saying this, before standing, sliding the stool back into the corner, and brushing the creases from the robes while turning toward the door.

"Master?"

The man stops and looks back inquisitively.

"What… is my name?" he says sheepishly. "I… don't remember."

"Ah, yes." his Master replies, walking back and leaning down. The hand reaches out once more and gently winds its fingers through his hair. He is a bit surprised to see the white strands fall along the side of his face.

"I will name you Fenris. My little wolf."

\---

Hawke's heart is pounding out of his chest.

There is a sickly feeling nestled deep in his gut, spreading outward into every limb. It it a sensation he remembers too well. He'd felt it just after Bethany had been slain by an ogre. Then again when they'd found his mother in Darktown, twisted into an unholy puppet by a demented blood mage.

Not far ahead of him stands Fenris, shoulders slumped. His eyes are distant; A deep red aura of magic trail from them.

"That… is the Champion of Kirkwall," Danarius tells the elf in a mischievous voice. "I want you to tear out his heart."

Fenris' head tilts up and looks toward Hawke. He sees the elf's eyes focus on him.

"Yes, Master."

That voice. Those two little words. There is no life in it. Nothing of the strong will he knows. There is only obedience.

All at once Fenris' marks suddenly flare into a familiar pale-blue light. The elf takes a stance and prepares to strike.

"Hawke! Move!" he hears from behind him.

The words don't quite register. Nothing does.

He's too late. He didn't make it in time.

The blur of light rushes forward. Hawke can barely exhale as his mind tries to process. But just as the blur reaches him there is a flash of energy focused only a stride-length ahead of him.

His mind snaps back into reality. He sees Fenris' form thrown backward, landing side-first onto the ground. Right in front of Hawke a shimmer of magical energy quickly disperses. His head snaps to the right, where Dorian stands firmly with his staff close and his other hand outstretched, breathing heavily.

"Hawke! We have to move!" He hears Varric yell from behind. "Now!"

He looks back to Fenris, who is quickly climbing to his feet and readying to strike once more. Hawke shakes the fear from his body, holds tight to his own staff, then falls back to the group as fast as he can.

"What do we do?!" Dorian asks as they regroup. "We can't fight him!"

"That's obvious, Sparkler!" Varric yells back. "We have to defend! Maybe we can knock him out."

"Oh, that simple?" Dorian spits.

They take defensive positions, spreading out to try and form a protective line around Hawke.

Fenris stands and eyes his target. His marks pulse with energy, illuminating him in a wraithlike form in the otherwise dim forest.

They've all seen him fight before. At his best, he can ghost along the battlefield like a specter, even taking an unwitting enemy by surprise. Varric hopes the elf is not at his best under these conditions.

Lavellan stands strong with her staff in the front ranks, bringing it hard into the ground just as he approaches. There is a flash of magic as a blanket of light falls around the group. The crackle of spirit energy is electric in the air.

Fenris shoots forward and rushes. Not quickly, but carefully. Bull stands ready not far ahead of Lavellan. As Fenris reaches him, he drives forward and right in an attempt to knock the elf down. They spin around each other and he just manages to impact Fenris on his left shoulder.

They both land on their feet facing off. There is no anger in his eyes. They are just… solemn… controlled.

Bull pushes forward once more and tries to slice down and knock the elf's legs out from under with the hilt of his own sword. But just before contact Fenris pivots and dives to the left, intuiting the move and slipping under the Qunari's shoulder, releasing a blast of energy that knocks him back.

Fenris does not take the opportunity to attack. Instead, he spins back and pushes toward Lavellan. She holds with steeled eyes as he moves to dive to her right and sidestep. She brings her staff down hard once more, sending a wave of spirit energy forward that pushes into him. He's momentarily knocked back but keeps his balance, jumping out of the worst of it, his feet sliding along the damp underbrush.

Bull moves in once more. He approaches Fenris' flank, but has little time to maneuver.

"Watch the shadows!" Dorian yells.

The group sees several more shades slither forward out of the darkness. Varric fires a bolt into one just as Bull pivots his footing in time to defend against it, losing his opening.

They are left distracted as Fenris turns, refocuses, and dives forward, slamming hard into Lavellan. Another great surge of energy burst forth. His charged marks send a shockwave through her barrier. It shatters, pushing them both apart.

"Fenris! Stop!" Hawke yells, "Listen to me! This isn't you!"

The elf stands firm and stares toward Hawke. He has moved forward to stand beside Lavellan, hands raised in a defensive gesture. "I can't keep casting barriers," she says quietly to him. "It's taking too much out of me."

Fenris almost seems to consider Hawke's words for a moment.

"I know what I am: an instrument of my Master's will."

"Fenhedis!" Dorian shouts as he downs the shade attacking him. "Fenris, the man is manipulating you with blood magic! He's warped your mind! You must see through it!"

Fenris' attention does not waver. He sprints forward once more as Lavellan reacts and stands to defend with the blunt of her staff. With little option, Hawke pulls his staff forward to bring a wave of force down between them. The blast throws clods of dirt and debris several feet into the air, temporarily blinding the elf's vision. Fenris dives to the side with a grunt, landing hard on his feet.

Hawke has seen Fenris fight many, many times. His movements are most often strong and graceful. Now, however… the elf is unsteady. Strong raw power, but it is uncoordinated. Could it be from fatigue, or the effects of blood magic? Whatever it may be, it is likely all that is helping them avoid taking the offensive.

The elf is wearing no armor. A direct hit from the wrong spell could kill him.

Hawke glances to the side to see the others still fighting demons. They have them at bay for the moment, but it is limiting their options. He looks back ahead and tries once more.

"Please… Fenris…," Hawke pleads. "You know who I am. You know that I could never hurt you. Don't do this."

The elf continues to stare him down. His gaze moves between Lavellan and Hawke, quickly planning.

He charges once more.

"Enough!" Lavellan yells as she lets loose an icy spell, attempting to freeze the area between them.

Fenris, however, is prepared. He dodges the wave of energy, jumping high as it impacts the ground, and sidesteps her staff as it arc forward for a blunted strike. His marks flare, pushing a blast that sends her stumbling back. She just manages to stay on her feet.

Hawke has another force spell ready. He directs it head-on into Fenris' chest. But at the last instant he hesitates.

He feels Fenris' body make contact, slamming into him and throwing them both onto the ground. The wind is knocked from his lungs. He gasps and reaches forward. One hand grabs hold of the elf's wrist, the other grips tight to the collar of his tunic.

Along Hawke's arms burn magic energy as reflex takes hold. He tries to push him off but there is an unnatural strength pushing back. He looks up to see Fenris on top of him, eyes locked with blood-red light. His marks glow brighter.

"Hold!" he hears from a short distance back. Fenris' free hand is locked around Hawke's throat. But the elf respects the command.

"Don't you see, Champion?" calls the voice. "Fenris is more than willing to kill you. Are you willing to do the same? Or are you perhaps finding it too difficult?"

Danarius is still there amongst the trees, protected by his blood-red barrier. On his face is a smug expression.

"This is what he is meant to be: A weapon. A tool. An obedient, devoted slave. Anything else was only a facade."

"He is… no-one's… slave," Hawke manages. He can feel fire on the edges of his fingertips, anger made into reaction.

But he knows it's true. He would never harm him.

Dorian curses angrily and spins, having just taken down the last shade nearby, and throws a large volley of fire toward Danarius. It impacts the magical barrier surrounding him, deflecting balls of flame off into the trees. The force of the blasts break a few branches free, raining small bits down onto the forest around the magister.

"Now, now, Dorian. You know very well this is the way of our people. It is the natural order of things."

"I learned a long time ago how truly wrong that is. No-one deserves to be subjected to this!"

"You lack vision."

"What vision is that? Magic that can twist a mind into blind obedience?"

"No, that magic itself is what defines our greatness. It is the hallmark of our civilization. Those who either cannot or choose not to wield it must instead bow to it."

"You're wrong," Dorian replies.

"Oh, my boy. If only you'd listened to your mentor a bit more. He might've shown you what a magister it truly makes."

Dorian growls under his breath.

As the two exchange bitter quips, Hawke's eyes are fixed on the form hovering over him.

Fenris' hand is still loosely gripped around his throat. He is staring back, awaiting his master's command to strike. A fire spell still sits on Hawke's fingertips. He allows it to dissipate.

"I… can't. I won't hurt you," he says, voice cracking.

Fenris offers no response. He just remains there, holding Hawke down, fighting back against his attempts to push free, cold and determined.

"I certainly wouldn't allow someone like you to wield it!" Dorian yells.

"Hah!" Danarius laughs. "You must be more naive than I thought. You once again fail to see the plainly obvious: Power is the only currency which truly matters."

Danarius' attention shifts to Varric and Bull, who have taken down the last demon. They are already running toward the others.

Danarius sighs and rubs his temple. "But alas, Pavus, enough talk. I grow tired of this!"

Lavellan then emerges from the shadows not far away, her staff's crown glowing brightly with blue energy. "I couldn't agree more," she says as she jumps over a fallen log and lands beside what she believes is the edge of Danarius' barrier.

She pulls the staff back, then pitches it forward. The energy bursts out in an icy ray of winter, impacting the barrier and spraying wildly upward along its etherial surface.

Several breaths later, as the mist from Lavellan's spell clears, Danarius stands looking back with amusement. "An ice spell? That's all? Was that supposed to freeze me solid, Inquisitor?"

"Not you," she replies with angered tension in her voice.

Danarius looks back in conceited confusion. Above him, though, the sound of cracking can be heard. Wood begins to splinter. He looks up just as the great ice crystals which have formed overhead break free several large swaths of heavy branches.

He gasps and screams, "Fenris, kill them!"

He attempts to redirect his barrier, but can only manage to expel a feeble defense and an angered grunt as they fall upon him, all together crashing to the ground.

Fenris' eyes steel and his marks glow once more. Hawke feels the hand tighten around his throat. He tries to rock to one side, to push the elf away, but can't summon any more strength. He sees someone approaching quickly in his periphery, but there's no time. He knows what comes next.

A deathly cold chill courses into his throat down into his chest.

"I… love you," Hawke says with what breath he has.

But to his surprise, the red aura emanating from Fenris' eyes suddenly fades. The chill stops its advance and retreats. Those deep green eyes begin to refocus.

"…Hawke?"

His voice is weak.

Fenris looks down to his hand around the Champion's throat. He startles and pulls it away as his marks go quiet.

Hawke coughs and tries catching his breath. "Fen…"

Varric stops just short of the pair as he secures Bianca behind his shoulder and leans down cautiously. He seems to recognize what's happened.

"Is it you, elf?"

Fenris stares blankly for a few moments as the confusion clears.

"I… yes." He still sits straddling Hawke's waist.

Varric heaves a heavy breath. The rogue opens his mouth to reply, but just as then there is a rustling in the fallen debris not far ahead. Lavellan, Dorian, and Bull are not far from it, cautiously watching with weapons drawn.

"Er, shit," Varric says under his breath.

There is a sound of crackling. Suddenly, three or four of the large branches are blown upward away and come crashing down not beside them. From the middle of the debris, Danarius' figure rises and stands, lightning and fire formed tight around his staff.

"Very clever, little incaensor. You saw my barrier did not extend above me. But dumb luck will not save you."

Danarius looks outward. "Fenris, finish this! Kill them all."

There is no response to his command.

The elf's gaze is still distant, tied loosely with Hawke's, but suddenly snaps to attention at the sound of the magister's voice.

Fenris plants one hand firmly on the ground, and pushes himself up. He stands, takes a moment to balance, and steps over Hawke to begin slowly walking forward. As he does, posture straightens.

It is then that Danarius realizes what has transpired. His smug demeanor suddenly turns to panic as he raises his free arm and attempts to cast a spell. But it is for not; The blood mana has been exhausted, and his control over Fenris lost.

Fenris is sprinting toward him.

Danarius lifts his staff to loose a spell. Before he can, a blast of fire impacts his arm. He nearly loses his grip. A second then hits from the opposite direction. Just enough to throw off his balance and prevent a counterattack. He drops to one knee.

It takes only three more breaths.

\---

Fenris' eyes open to sunlight falling through a nearby window.

He raises his hand to block the brightness. His eyes feel tired. He blinks the last bits of sleep from them and looks around.

He is in a bed, a sheet pulled up over him. Looking to his right, he sees Hawke slumped in a tall armchair in the corner with his head tilted to one side. The mage is snoring softly.

It looks to be a communal room. There are two other beds nearby. Across the room is a desk, facing toward, with another figure sitting behind it. Varric's head tilt up to meet his gaze.

"Well look at that," the dwarf says quietly, setting down a roll of paper and a quill. "I told him he was worrying for nothing."

Varric gets up from the table and walks toward the bed. Fenris slips upward out of the covers and sits, resting his back on the headboard.

"Varric… where am I?, he says cautiously, "What happened?"

"It's alright. We're safe. You're safe. How much do you remember?"

"I… remember escaping. Then running. Then… Danarius… he caught up… and…" Fenris sits a bit taller suddenly and reaches upward, hand grasping at his bare neck.

"Don't worry, it's gone. It took a little bit trying before Sparkler figured out how to take that collar off without hurting you, but he did."

Fenris visibly relaxes.

He looks over to Hawke, still asleep in the chair. Varric looks over at him as well.

"I'm surprised he can sleep like that. There's a perfectly good bed right over there, but he insisted on staying up in case you woke."

Fenris' eyes drop to his hands. "I nearly killed him."

"You didn't do a damn thing," Varric replies. "It was all that twisted Tevinter bastard."

"I can remember my hand around his throat. A few moments more and I would've finished it."

"You know it wasn't your choice, and so does he."

Fenris doesn't immediately respond.

After a few moments, Varric sits down on the side of the nearby bed and sighs.

Fenris looks up at this. "After the spell broke… what happened then? I remember running at Danarius. I was furious; I wanted to tear out his throat with my bare hands. But… it's all hazy."

"Well… you aren't far off. After he realized he wasn't in control anymore, he tried to fight you off himself. The Inquisitor and Sparkler made sure that didn't happen. You… well let's just say he won't be bothering anyone anymore. …Again." Varric scratches the back of his head. "Once he was dead, you collapsed. You were half-frozen, soaked, and shivering. Bull scooped you up and carried you with us. We eventually made it back to the horses without running into anyone else, thanks to some careful scouting by the Inquisitor, and rode for a couple of hours. Found a village not far from the border with Orlais just a little after dawn. That's… about all."

"And the others?"

"No worse for wear. Sparkler got a bit banged up fighting some demons, but he'll be alright. I think he's off looking for a tailor to fix the tear in his robes. I don't envy whoever he finds. The Inquisitor and Bull went out to find some information about the area."

"Bull… he was in Skyhold. I found him in the dungeons. How…?"

"Right… I forgot about that," says the dwarf sheepishly. "I'll need to catch you up on the rest. In the meantime, though, you should rest. We aren't planning to heading out until tomorrow, so you should take it easy," he says, getting up. "I'll leave you and sleeping beauty here alone for awhile."

Varric walks to the table and collects his papers before smiling back toward Fenris.

"It's good to have you back, elf."

Fenris nods.

Once the door closes, he looks back toward Hawke. The man stirs slightly, shifting his shoulder to better rest his head on the chair's side. A few moments later the light bouts of snoring start once more.

There is an ache in his heart. He'd nearly lost him again. Because of magic. But also because of himself. He doesn't know how to feel.

Now, more than ever, he understands how badly he desires to be with Hawke, safe together.

\---

Hawke awakens with a calm tilt of his head.

He looks up to a wondrous sight. Fenris is sitting on the edge of the small bed in front of him, back turned toward him.

Next to Fenris a basin of water rests upon the bedside table. His shirt is off and he is carefully running a wet cloth along his skin.

Hawke watches quietly, careful not to disturb him. The muscles in his back glide as Fenris washes along his arms, down his side, then reaching to his legs. The lines of lyrium lace delicately down his spine and outward in curving patterns.

He is beautiful.

Hawke could watch him for hours, if he felt it wouldn't make the elf uncomfortable. He weighs the urge to move out of the chair and climb into the bed. To sit at his lover's back and curl up against him. To take him in his arms.

The only night they'd found together since reuniting was in this false Skyhold. Hawke had been injured. They'd fallen asleep in each others' arms, but nothing more.

Maker, it has been so long.

Fenris reaches over to wet the cloth. He rings it out several times before setting it carefully on the basin's edge. As he does, he glances to the side slightly, and smirks.

"Am I so entertaining?," he says dryly.

Hawke sits up straight, like a chantry boy caught stealing sweets.

"I… uh…" he says, thinking quickly, reaching both arms over his head to stretch and yawn widely. "Maker, you're awake! I must've fallen asleep. How… how late is it, anyway?"

Fenris closes his eyes and smiles.

"Mid-afternoon. I considered waking you, but thought it best to let you sleep."

"Well… maybe you should've," he says, reaching behind his head. "I have a knot in my neck as large as a plum." He stands and stretches tall, fingertips easily touching the ceiling of the small room. As he does, a small trail of black hair is visible just below his shirt. Fenris does not fail to notice.

Fenris pushes gently off the bed and begins to stand.

"Oh, Maker! Take it slow," he says, rushing over. "You need to rest." Hawke takes hold of the elf's forearms to help him up.

"I am fine, Hawke," Fenris replies. "I do not wish to be coddled." The words hold no particular malice.

"No, right. I wasn't trying to…" He says as the thought trails off.

Fenris smiles briefly once more. He continues to hold tight to the mage's arms.

"Hawke… I missed you," he says, voice low and suddenly saddened. "So terribly. I couldn't find the words before."

Hawke stares for a moment, then softens. He pulls Fenris closer, bringing them together so their bodies touch. "I know."

Fenris rests his head on the Champion's chest. He can hear his heartbeat through the thick fabric of his shirt.

After several moments, he raises his head to look into Hawke's eyes. He releases his grip. His fingers feel empty without the other's touch. He brings his hands up to Hawke's neck, and gently pulls his head down toward his own. Their lips meet in a passionate kiss.

It's warm. Inviting. A feeling he's sorely missed and greatly desired for months and months. The only feeling in the world he could find himself utterly lost in.

Eventually Fenris pulls away, but just enough to look his lover in the eyes. He leans backward to fall onto the bed once more, dragging Hawke with him. The man offers no resistance.

Neither of them thinks to check the door. Neither of them much cares.

\---

The light of the day is still holding strong, but the sun is dipping on the horizon. The winter months yield shorter days and colder nights.

Lavellan and Bull approach the inn, talking quietly amongst themselves. As they enter the door to the large main common room they find Dorian and Varric playing a hand of cards near the hearth. No other patrons are around.

"Ah, you're back," Dorian says as they walk up. "How does it look?"

"Eh, could be worse," Bull replies. "I only counted one Inquisition spy tailing us."

Varric sighs. "Any chance they could just be checking up on us?"

"It's possible," Lavellan says. "But if they were just observing, they would have made themselves more obvious to alleviate suspicion." She comes to rest in a chair next to Dorian. "We have to consider what which we were all thinking anyway: That Trevelyan would never let us actually return through the eluvian with the amulet."

"Eh, fair," Varric says gruffly. "It's probably unlikely we can sneak _back into_ Skyhold undetected and figure out a way to reopen it on our own, right?"

"What other options might we have?" Dorian asks.

"Bull… you mentioned before that you might know where another mirror might be," Varric recalls. "Now's as good a time as any."

The Qunari pulls the fourth chair out and sits down. "Yeah… about that," Bull starts. "It's not exactly in the easiest place to get to. You probably aren't going to like it."

"It cannot possibly be worse than infiltrating Skyhold," Dorian says dryly. He thinks for a bit longer before adding, "Can it?"

"Last I heard, the Ben-Hassrath found one of those mirrors and took it under lock-and-key for study about a year back. They tend to do that with weird magical shit that nobody really understands. They've got a whole branch of folks devoted to cataloging stuff and keeping it safe. Well, I know where this one was and is probably still being held, and I might be able to get you in. But…"

"But?" Lavellan repeats.

"Only problem is… it's in Kirkwall."


End file.
